


You'll Hear Me Howling (Outside Your Door)

by HarpiaHarpyja



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: ABO Catholic Lore, Alpha Ben Solo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Boners, Camping, Canada, Car Sex, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, Confessional, Crisis of Faith, Eh B O, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Forbidden Love, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, It's not a conversion story y'all, Marking, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mention of past Finn-Rey FWB, Mild Blood, Omega Rey (Star Wars), Oral Sex, Priest Ben Solo, Ransolm and Canady are priests too so get ready for that, Rey Stafford: Friendly Neighborhood Agnostic, Roman Catholicism, Scent Kink, Secret Relationship, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn on Speed, Smut, Snowed In, Some Humor, Temptation, The Last Temptation of Ben Solo, Vaginal Fingering, Voice Kink, i can't help it sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-05-31 08:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarpiaHarpyja/pseuds/HarpiaHarpyja
Summary: Father Ben Solo has been a priest at St. Ailbe's parish for the last year. It's a position that provides the structure and control he lacked in his youth, and maybe best of all, a way to wrangle his more unsavory urges as an Alpha. Rey Stafford has just moved to Ontario, hoping to advance at work and adjust to a new life across the Atlantic as an Omega living alone. When an unusual encounter in the confessional leaves them spiraling into a constant routine of advance and retreat, they both begin to struggle against their own baser urges and the ticking time bomb of years of repression.





	1. Just a Spike

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeniciHOE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeniciHOE/gifts).



> Hey! This fic was brought about by a wonderful prompt from BeniciHOE, which combined my sick love of priest!Ben, and my secret desire to one day try my hand at ABO despite...really not getting it for the longest time. It was supposed to be a "longish one-shot," but quickly turned into something much longer - angst, smut, Catholic guilt, and a heaping dose of irreverent humor to take the edge off. I hope.
> 
> Many, _many_ thanks to Trish47 for her constant, amazing help with the ABO aspects in particular, but also with brainstorming and pretty much everything as a beta. Thanks also to inmyownidiom, leoba, and flypaper_brain for brainstorming and beta-reading as I've gone along! Writing this has been a pretty major learning experience and a ton of fun, and your support has been such a wonderful thing to have along the way. <3

The silence on the other side of the screen is nearly complete, but there is definitely someone there. Ben is used to a range of responses during the sacrament of confession, from nervous, self-flagellating babbling to affected piety. Radio silence, not so much. He is actually starting to wonder if the space on the other side of the screen is empty, except he knows he heard the door open and shut, then the scuffle of feet inside.

And there’s the scent, too. Very faint, obviously concealed by blockers—but it’s there. The faint perfume of Omega. Even under the fading smog of incense, even under the weight of his own suppressants, his nose picks up on it. Sort of floral. More complex than just that. Sweet, but not cloying. Dusty heliotrope and sun-heated moss on a dry summer day.

He clears his throat. His brow twitches as he studies his hands, folded in his lap.

“Hello?”

There’s no answer to his (second) uncertain greeting, though he detects movement out the corner of his eye. It’s a bluish light, very dim, wavering a bit on the other side in the shape of a rectangle. Its appearance is followed by a rapid and familiar  _ tok-tok-tok. _

Ben frowns. “Are you . . . on your phone?”

That, at last, gets a response. 

“No! Er, yes, but . . . I was just trying to look up the, er. Process. I’ll—” 

Whatever the voice mutters next is indiscernible, but the light trembles and shifts, like the person on the other side has just flailed their arms. Her arms. Because the voice is also undoubtedly female. Young, low, and pretty, with a hint of an English accent. Warm, too, and somehow hard. It makes him think of a dark mahogany cabinet, an old-fashioned confessional, worn and finely crafted to hide things inside. Suppressants and blockers can make a world of difference when it comes to pheromones and natural cycles, but they don’t do a damn thing for something as mundane as how attractive a voice can be.

He responds to hers immediately. His body wants to, at least. His pulse speeds up like it’s spent the day slacking off. His ears strain to hear her speak again. His nostrils flare. His imagination demands he put her together from her voice alone: what she looks like, smells like, the color of her eyes and hair, shape of her body, texture of her skin, taste of her sweat. He pictures her sitting in the chair across from him, not hidden behind a screen but open and unbothered, and all his blood threatens to rush south.

And then it’s gone, and he’s fine. Just a spike. They happen; he deals with them. He doesn't think they have ever been quite this intense, but everyone faces temptation. This is less a moral failing than an inconvenient trick of biology. A cross to bear. It could be so much worse, and he thanks God it isn’t.

Ben clears his throat again and is immediately conscious of it. He wonders if she notices. “If you need a prompt to get started, there’s a leaflet in there with you. Act of Contrition. Ten Commandments. Examination of conscience. The basics.”

The woman on the other side shifts around, and he hears the wobbly sound of the plastic-laminated leaflet as she picks it up, presumably to inspect it. She is breathing quickly, and he can’t fathom why. Some people get cagey in here, but he doesn’t think hers is the usual sort of nerves. He tunes it out.

“Oh. That’s . . . I’m not really sure what—” she begins after a few moments (he can imagine her reading the leaflet, maybe squinting in the dim light on the other side, a quizzical expression arching her brows), and stops herself. “It’s been a while. A long time. Sorry. I don’t remember much of this at all. Do I start with the . . . Our Father?”

Wow, she was not kidding.

He could maintain distance. Tell her it’s fine, that lots of people go years without doing this, that she’s not the only one who’s ever shown up uncertain, and wait for her to gather herself and begin. But he doesn’t exactly have all day, and he isn’t a patient man under the best circumstances. There will be others waiting (though maybe not for him; he tends to be a last resort for most things at St. Ailbe’s, when it comes to dealing with parishioners). Confessions end at four-thirty—it’s a quarter after now.

Yet . . .

Ben turns to face the screen, as if he might suddenly be able to see her. She's still a shadow. “Would you like me to walk you through it?” 

“Father, are you suggesting that I cheat?”

The screen is there for discretion and anonymity, but right now he’s glad she can’t see his incredulous expression. Despite his annoyance, her response is a little amusing. It was meant to be, he realizes.

“The only way to cheat at this is to intentionally leave something out of your confession. Though I’m not sure that’s cheating either—God still knows.”

“Ahh.” She chuckles. “Well then, yeah, sure. Please.”

So he does, from the Sign of the Cross to the Absolution. He can tell she’s reading every prayer off the leaflet as they reach them, and the things she confesses are mostly generic, peppered here and there with more specifics that paint a picture to go with the voice and the scent. A tube of lipstick swiped from the local Shoppers because she used to do stuff like that all the time as a kid and missed the rush of doing something petty and subversive. Jealousy over a colleague’s recent promotion, because she deserved it more and she’s always being passed up for things. 

Her marked discomfort over ‘Honor thy father and mother’ is what causes him to tell her she isn’t obligated to cover every single commandment if she doesn’t have anything to say. It’s a tough one for him, too. (He does not tell her that.)

It’s over quickly. He’s usually known for giving more demanding penances, but he just instructs her to say a decade of the Rosary. He tells her to go in peace, and he hears her rising and her hand hitting the doorknob.

“Thanks. For helping me out with this. I feel very . . . absolved.”

He raises an eyebrow and checks the time. “As I said, it’s nothing unusual.” 

“Yeah, well. I was pretty certain I was going to waste your time and you’d tell me to fuck right off, so—” A pause, and then a gasp. “Oh, shit— Er. I’m sorry. Father. Sir. I know I’m in a church and I'm probably not supposed to be swearing in one, I just have a bit of a—”

Despite himself, Ben laughs, and though he silences it after the initial burst, the effort to do so sets his shoulders shaking. 

“Father Ben is fine,” he says when he regains composure. “And you could have done worse.”

“I haven’t murdered anyone with words yet, despite my best efforts.”

“Good to know.”

“Right. Well. Thanks again. Father Ben.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He realizes he’s clasped his hands together so tightly they’ve begun to go numb, and releases to wipe his sweaty palms on his thighs. The door on the other side opens and clicks shut. Ben waits a few minutes, and when no one else comes, he retreats to the sacristy, trying very hard to resist the urge to poke his head into the chapel to catch a glimpse of her. He caves too quickly. But she’s already gone.

+

Rey considers, as she sits down to her dinner of ramen takeaway, what it might mean that she told a lie during her first confession. 

Or maybe it wasn’t a lie. She told the priest ( _ Father Ben Solo,  _ according to the placard outside the confessional when she checked on her way out _ )  _ it had been a long time since she had last confessed. Never is technically a long time—the longest time, in fact. Right? There were other lies baked into that one, though, that are harder to excuse: omissions and implications that she is at least a churchgoer, or has been at some point, that she believes in the necessity of something like confession, that she believes in God. 

None of these are true. Before today, Rey has never been inside a church. She has certainly never been Catholic, nor does she really get the appeal of telling some strange man in a musty, velvet-lined closet all the bad things she’s done, nor is she decided on the whole God question. She thinks there could be something ordering the universe, but that it is maybe not doing such a great job. If it were, life would be more fair.

She also said ‘fuck’ in front of a priest, in a church, and immediately followed it up with an emphatic ‘shit’, so that was probably not ideal either.

She never planned it. She only went because, as she took an alternate running route that morning—a storm last night felled a tree along her usual route, and the whole street is closed off even now—she felt a tug as she passed St. Ailbe of Emly Roman Catholic Church. 

She isn’t sure how else to describe it but that. A tug. Not overwhelmingly bad or good, though a touch uncomfortable. It’s the feeling she gets when she knows she has forgotten something and that the forgotten something is hiding just beyond the reach of conscious recollection. The realization that despite all her efforts, she just can’t grasp it. The indignity of knowing that she will remember it later when she is no longer trying because she no longer needs the thing.

It’s that feeling, but there’s a physical element too. 

She ignored it during her run, because at the time her mind was more set on breakfast and the question of why she continues to let herself think fasted workouts are better. But after she got home and showered and ate, she still felt the tug, and it was stronger. A wringing hand low between her hips; it reminded her of the shuddering cramps that presaged a heat. (She is  _ not _ going into a heat.) An ache that wasn’t quite an ache radiating up through her rib cage and lungs that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and her scalp prickle. 

_ You’re missing something _ , it seemed to say.  _ Remember? _

It still seems to say it now, but she knows the cause. And the cause really blows. Her tangle of noodles slips off her chopsticks and lands back in the broth with an insulting, salty plop. She jabs the sticks in and tries again as she continues to brood.

It was this morning when her rerouted run and that feeling happened. While she didn’t have work, she did have plans to paint her new place. That was a thing a person could do when they were alone and friendless that wasn't totally depressing. For a while it was a distraction. Fun even—she liked watching the walls go from nondescript off-white to pale green. She can still smell the fresh paint, even with the windows open.

But the tug was there come late afternoon, her arms and neck were aching, and her nasal passages were screaming. She needed fresh air. A walk. So she decided to retrace her steps, as if she didn’t already know where they would take her. 

Right back to St.-bloody-Ailbe’s. 

It’s a beautiful building, she’ll give it that, tucked into a historic corner of the Toronto suburb she has called home for the last month and is still trying to learn. Old brown-and-gray stonework, a bell tower, gorgeous stained glass, cherry blossom trees outside already dropping their petals a few weeks into spring. She found herself wandering up to the red double doors, walking inside, pausing in the vestibule. The air smelled smoky and sort of sweet. It was very quiet except for a handful of people sitting around in a small bench-filled room off to the side.

She saw a sign by the door of that room: 

Sacrament of Reconciliation

Saturdays, 3-4:30

Confessions in Side Chapel

It was just about four. She had no interest in the confession part, but she felt the urge to go inside. The tug eased when she did, and for a second she was thinking  _ Oh shit, this is starting to sound like one of those cheesy conversion stories _ , because what? She felt weird all day and the only thing that made it better was popping into a chapel?

But it wasn’t the chapel. It was one of the structures off to the side, like two giant cabinets set into the wall. Each was split into two sections, and each section had a door. There was a little light at the top, right in the middle. When she arrived both lights were on, and then one went out and a person walked out of one of the cabinets, headed for a bench, pulled a kneeler down, and began to pray. She guessed.

She watched someone else go in and come out about five minutes later. She did this for a while, feeling weird as she sat there with her hands in her lap, until no one else went in. So she got up to leave.

Instead, she opened the left-side door of one of the cabinets, as if something was pulling her hand to the knob and forcing her to do so, closed it behind her, and found herself looking at the inside of a confessional—dimly lit, rectangular screen to the right, padded kneeler in front of it, a chair. And that feeling, it was satisfied for the first time all day. How infuriating. She was about to turn and go when she heard the voice on the other side.

“Good afternoon.”

_ Shit _ , she’d never had that sort of reaction to the sound of someone else’s voice before. It was so startling another few moments passed before she noticed the scent. She knows the way Alphas smell, in general, even the ones who are for some reason suppressing their pheromones and all the urges that go with them. It’s never something she notices much anymore. The suppressants she takes help her ignore the urge to ingratiate herself, and she likes how easy it sometimes is to turn her nose up to the sway of a particularly powerful specimen— _ See? You’re not so impressive. _ But she noticed it a few hours ago, in that confessional. The priest on the other side of the screen was an Alpha, and her draw to him (or, she supposes in hindsight, the potential for it) was so strong that it wound through the fog of not just his own suppressants but hers as well. 

That has never happened before. 

In the moment, she was flummoxed, embarrassed, a little afraid. She couldn’t think of what to say. She was thumbing through her phone, frantically Googling ‘ _ how to do confession, _ ’ because the idea of leaving was repugnant, and if she wasn’t leaving, she had to pretend she belonged there.

“Hello?”

The sound of him speaking to her didn’t make her  _ quiver _ that time, but it did provoke the realization that she was sitting there in stupefied silence ever since figuring out what he was. She hated that. It felt typically Omega, powerless and cowed and not in control. It was why she took the fucking suppressants.

“Are you on your phone?”

That was how it started. How she found herself spilling the most random transgressions she could think of to a stranger, to a man she hadn’t even seen, not because he was a priest and she had to, but because his voice made her feel like she was full of warm honey and even that fleeting trace of his scent made her want to press her face to the screen for a hint more. It was almost exactly like this coffee she loved back in London and had yet to find this side of the Atlantic. 

Which was absurd, but she wanted to drink it in anyway.

She wishes she had some of it now (the coffee, not his scent, thanks), as she rinses the rime of pork broth from her bowl and contemplates dessert. It would have been better if he’d been mean—instead he was patient and controlled, and apparently found her carpet bombing his confessional with profanity amusing. So now she has the sound of his laugh in her head, too, with all the rest. With that urge to go back as soon as she can. God, she’s going to need to figure that one out.

Tin of vastly inferior coffee grounds in hand, Rey prepares the brewer and formulates a plan. If she told him a lie this time, maybe that’s worth going back for. No need to feel guilty—that’s the point of the whole thing, right? She’ll just confess it next time. To Father Ben. She can wait until Saturday. A week is nothing.

+

That night, in the rectory, Ben waits until Monsignor Canady and Father Ransolm have gone to bed, then he rises to take a shower. He’s traditionally a morning shower person. He runs at five in the morning, every morning, so it just makes sense, but he doubts anyone is going to question one night of deviation. The fact that he’s thinking this way makes what he’s about to do a deliberate choice, not an unexpected moment of weakness—and that’s not great. He acknowledges that, but he goes anyway: locks the door of the small bathroom behind him; turns the shower on; strips and waits for the steam to fog the mirrors and the glass of the shower door before he steps under the spray.

He runs through the motions—soaps up, washes his hair—like that makes this all right, like it really is an accident when his hand winds up on his cock. He strokes until he’s hard and his skin is tingling, and then he gingerly runs his thumb around the soft ring of skin close to the base, right near his balls; the tissue that would expand to become a knot, if this were real and he were fucking another human being instead of just his hand. Which is something he hasn’t done in a decade—been with someone, rutted and knotted them. He misses that feeling (though most of the rest, the anger and conflict and uncontrol, he misses less). It’s worse when he’s near the end of a suppressant cycle. 

Instead he has this.

When he does  _ this _ , which is not infrequent and always a source of immediate shame, he rarely fantasizes about anyone or anything specific. At some point he told himself that makes it less sinful by degrees, as if that’s how this works.

But tonight his mind is drawn again to the voice of the woman he heard in the confessional. The sound of it is too easy to recall—no, the  _ feeling _ of it. Because it was more like a physical sensation than a sound, the same way her scent was. Rolling over the words of each prayer, haltingly divulging her darknesses to him. He remembers how it felt to hear that voice calling him Father, asking him to lead her through it, asking for blessing because she had sinned. As it did then, it settles over his skin like heat from a fire. 

He doesn’t try to call up that teasing trace of her sweet-sunbaked-earthy-green scent. He doesn’t imagine a face for her. She doesn’t have one. It isn’t  _ her _ —it’s a collection of sounds.

By the time he really gets going, though, he knows that’s wrong. With each squeeze and twist of his hand, with each course of shuddering pleasure, he can hear that voice tripping desperately over new words.

_ I have a confession to make, Father. _

She’s still just a sound, at first. A shade beyond the screen. The low tones of her voice coax him closer, inviting him to share a secret. He aches for her. His blood races. He begins to sweat. 

She begs. Implores him.

_ I need you to put your cock in me. I need you to knot me and fill me with your cum. I need it. Make me better. _

Ben braces his hand against the wet tiles and imagines the screen sliding open. Better still, she has come to his side. There is no screen. There’s only her, bent over the chair, spread open and gasping with need, flushed and swollen, deep pink and soaked. And God, he wants to bury himself to the hilt in her and mark her as his. He will.

_ Fuck me until I’m dripping. Can you smell how much I need you?  _

He imagines the soapy slip of his hand is her cunt—silken, heady, sweet, achingly hot, irresistible. That he doesn’t have to resist. 

_ Please. _

She is a mess of slick. She is coating his cock with every mad thrust of his hips. She fills every one of his senses as he fills her. She keens with relief when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh at the base of her neck. It feels like absolution.

_ Please, Father _ .

Ben comes hard and he barely manages to keep from crying out. He bites his cheek until he tastes blood and watches pale ropes of cum splatter across the shower wall and the floor, swept up in the water and swirling down the drain. When the rush fades he has dim satisfaction and dawning guilt, a soft cock and a useless knot. Like any other time. 


	2. Little Tongues of Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, and thanks so much for the wonderful response last week! Next chapter we'll start getting some longer scenes as our leads begin to orbit _a bit more closely_.

“I’ve been dishonest.”

Today is Saturday, and Rey has just begun her second confession. She’s decided already that she does not like this whole screen business. It’s dehumanizing. And maybe, if she could see what Father Ben looked like, it would kill the chemical allure of his voice and scent. Maybe he’s old; maybe he's hideous. She doubts the former is the case—he sounds young. As for the latter, that’s down to personal taste, and physical attraction is tricky when it comes to Alphas. Pheromones can convince a person to make allowances.

Not that she’s that superficial. She’s not.

But she’s not sure she should really be thinking about a priest in terms she would use to decide if she wants to date or fuck someone.

She is also not going to date or fuck a priest. She might not be religious, but even she knows that’s against the rules (which, she will admit, has added its own weird layer of appeal—he  _ can’t have her _ , even if he wanted to). He just smells so bloody good. The coffee smell again, but now that she knows it, it’s deeper, almost smoky. There are  _ layers _ . Little tongues of flame lick the inside of her thighs, and her skin feels clammy.

On the other side of the screen, he’s quiet, waiting for her to continue. Rey realizes she’s sunken into pensive, lustful silence and grasps for another transgression to spit out. 

“And I, er . . . coveted.” People actually say stuff like that in here? She has no idea. She moves her legs closer together on the kneeler. “Envy, I mean. I guess.”

“The work thing again?”

She pauses, a little stunned. He remembers her from last time, when she told him about her sometimes maddening jealousy over Devi's promotion. Rey moved countries in part because she thought a better position would be offered her at RESist Labs’ Ontario office. No such luck, and she’s still nursing her wounds. And Father Ben recognizes her, by voice or scent or _something_ , and he remembers. 

He seems to realize he has acted atypically, because he clears his throat (he did that a lot last time; she wonders if it’s a nervous tick and thinks it’s funny an Alpha would be nervous) and draws a breath. “I apologize, that wasn’t appropriate.”

She can’t really see why. Maybe he’s not supposed to keep tabs. The thought that he might have, about her, is exciting rather than uncomfortable.

“It’s all right.”

“It’s really not.”

“Well. You’re right. It happened a few weeks ago, right after I moved, and I get annoyed about it all the time. Being passed over for things . . . forgotten about, it— It’s something that I have a hard time dealing with, when it happens.”

She stops herself before she can continue to babble on about her shitty family life growing up and her stint in the children’s home, how she had to work twice as hard for anything she wanted (and many of the things she needed), and how she got used to that work paying off most of the time but likes to think she never takes any of what she has for granted. How a single snub or failure still hurts infinitely more than it should because she should be better than that by now, and she isn’t.

“Everyone has those things,” he says after a moment. “You’re not alone. You learn to grow beyond them. And if you can’t, you acknowledge them for what they are and find a way to live with them. Or fight them.”

“And what is that? What they are?”

He pauses, as if he’s not sure he should answer or that his answer is correct. “Weaknesses.”

“Oh. I guess so.”

She was expecting more distance again, so his candid response surprises her. So does her desire to be so honest about all this, suddenly. Rey could make everything up, because she isn’t here to repent for anything. Which is sort of fucked up, when she thinks on it and her real reasons. But the thing is, it does feel better to tell someone about her bullshit and be listened to and heard and remembered. She doesn’t have anyone like that these days. Therapists cost money, and they try to fix you, and Rey doesn’t need to be fixed. Finn’s back in England, and texts and calls and emails are great, but the time difference is difficult with their schedules. Even with the wonders of technology, it’s painful when her best friend is so far away. 

So while she imagined this thing would be more like an interrogation than a conversation, she’s starting to appreciate that it’s not really either. She just wishes Father Ben would say a little more. He’s mostly silent when she speaks, and it might be nice if she could get him to talk to her, like he just did when he seemed to slip.

But the moment has passed, and from then until the end of it, he’s much the same as he was last time. Reticent, a little dry, each measured word he gives her something she wants to keep. When she gets home later, the words are already fading from memory, but she can smell him in her hair. It makes that feeling in her belly pulse lasciviously. She tolerates it through the evening, then takes a shower before bed and scrubs shampoo into her scalp until it burns.

+

He looks for her during the noon Mass. Looks, and tries to catch her scent, because it’s still all he has to go on. She was gone in a flash yesterday, yet again. He is pretty sure she doesn’t stay for her penance—he deliberately set her two decades of the Rosary and five Our Fathers yesterday, which should have meant she would have still been there when he poked his head out of the sacristy afterward. She wasn’t. He’s too cynical to believe she does it at home.

But who is he to judge? 

He’s the one sitting here on the altar, only sort of listening to the responsorial psalm as he systematically evaluates the congregation in an attempt to weed out her pheromone halo of heliotrope-and-moss. It’s distinct, it snatches his attention in a way nothing else does, and it is definitely not out there. 

He’s also the one using penance, _a holy sacrament_ , as a way to try to get a look at the face of a woman he has now interacted with only twice and already finds irresistible. Nearly irresistible. If she truly were, they would both be in trouble. Really, this is very wrong of him. Treating her time with the Lord as if it’s some private power experiment of his own devising. 

Monsignor Canady swats him on the knee, and Ben realizes he’s begun to lean forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, back rigid, like an animal on the hunt. Ben’s first response is a flare of outrage at the affront—from a Beta, no less—but it fades swiftly, smothered out by pharmaceutical interference. Ben coughs and sits back and is grateful he’s only the concelebrant today.

But it is sort of true, isn't it? The whole confession dynamic is a power play. A control thing. At least he has always kind of seen it as such. No question that his view is bad theology, and he would definitely get reprimanded for ever admitting to it or suggesting as much to a parishioner . . . but anyone who argues otherwise is naive. Yes, penitence and forgiveness and redemption are beautiful things. Precious things. He believes that.

Yet the penitent is like a suspect in an interrogation room. In a vulnerable position, whether they’re behind the screen or looking him in the face (which they rarely do)—not physically vulnerable, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually, which is infinitely more terrifying. For them, not him. Ben has the power to give or deny something they want. Something they _ need.  _

It’s different with that woman. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t feel quite like he has all the power there. She’s hiding something, maybe. Or toying with him. Drawing him out. Making him want to say things he has never said to anyone but his own confessor, when he is the vulnerable one and Canady has the power. Rarely is the acknowledgement of the monsignor’s superiority over him more of a struggle than in the confessional.

Canady no doubt thinks he has the full measure of Ben by now. A person’s fears, deficiencies, and failings can inform a lot of who they are. He would say that Ben is thoughtful and intelligent, easily bored, and doesn’t like being told what to do. That those things make him arrogant sometimes, but that he feels a lot, too. He empathizes, maybe too much, and it makes him crave distance as a means of control. And Canady wouldn’t be wrong.

Ben is not one of those personable, friendly priests. Prevailing Church thought, at least for the last fifty years or so, is that a sufficiently suppressed Alpha makes a wonderful religious leader. People want to listen to them. They exude authority, charisma, certitude. Father Ransolm would be a posterboy for it, in fact—all politic charm and magnetic personality and stupidly handsome demeanor—were it not for the fact that he’s as much a Beta as Canady. Yet Ben has never quite fit that mold. People might listen to him, but they don’t _like_ him, and he doesn’t give them much reason to do so.

So it isn’t in his nature to chat during confessions, to draw a person out more, to try to comfort them or make them feel less self-conscious. He likes the impersonality of the screen and wishes St. Ailbe’s had never installed new confessionals that offer the option for face-to-face. Yet he finds himself wishing that she might come around again, next week, and make that choice. That she might want to see him and be seen by him. Because, God, he wants to see her. He wants to see what sort of creature could smell so alluring and have such a captivating voice. If he saw her, he might figure it out and get over it.

Or it might get worse. 

Ben is in the middle of imagining a chance crossing of paths in the meat section of the Superstore— _she’s at the butcher counter, asking for a half pound of sausages, a handbasket full of fragrant, ripe produce in the crook of her elbow, and he can’t help but stop and say hello, and she recognizes him even though he isn’t wearing his clerics, because she knows his scent and she craves it, and she smiles and invites him for dinner, and_ —when Canady nudges him again and raises an eyebrow. From above. Because Canady is standing and walking over to the pulpit to deliver the Gospel.

Ben’s missed the entire second reading. Flustered, he frowns and stands quickly. He doubts anyone in the congregation has noticed, but he can’t help thinking the monsignor knows what he’s been distracted by anyway. He’s not sure if his shame is due more to the fantasy meat-cute itself, or to how he’s so suppressed these days that half his sexual fantasies take the shape of metaphor.

+

She spends most of Sunday straightening, tidying, and sorting. Spring cleaning in a place she’s just moved in to doesn’t amount to much, but she likes the way it feels after. Most of the rooms are painted now, everything finally unpacked. She thinks she might add a mural to one of the walls eventually. 

The condo is finally a home, and Rey deserves a reward. A long hot bath first. Of all the things in her new place, the deep, ivory clawfoot is by far the most decadent, and she luxuriates in the experience until her fingers and toes are pruney, the vanilla-scented suds have disappeared, and the water is tepid. Wrapped in a bathrobe, she makes herself a cuppa in the kitchen, then takes it to her bedroom and sinks down onto the bed.

She should put her pajamas on and turn in. She has an early day in the lab. Instead she opens her nightstand drawer and peers inside, taking stock of the modest array of toys she keeps on hand for moments like this. The relief drawer—some days more relief is needed than others. Her eyes skip over vibrators and clamps and pause on one of the dildos. She reaches for it. Then she changes her mind. If she’s going to do this, and if she’s going to think about _him_ while she does, she’s not sure she wants to start associating a priest with her sex toys, not even one of the little bullets. Definitely not the largest dildo, which she only somewhat ironically calls “her only hope.” Not yet anyway.

Empty-handed, she closes the drawer and lies back with her head on the freshly laundered pillows. Father Ben would not approve of her collection. Masturbation is a sin, if she recalls correctly. She bets he does it anyway. An Alpha would have to, as much as an Omega, as much as anyone with a sex drive, even one who’s married to God or the Church or whatever. Maybe that’s his “thing,” the weaknesses he talked about yesterday. 

Rey wonders how he does it, because she has decided he must, and the thought makes her wet before she’s even unfolded her hands from where they rest on her belly to untie her robe. She lets it fall open, the terrycloth warm and soft beneath her back as the cool air touches her skin.

He probably does it in the shower. Wash all the evidence right away down the drain, as if God wouldn’t know. As if Rey wouldn’t know, lying here now, naked while she wills it into existence for her private enjoyment. Since she doesn’t know what he looks like, she imagines his hands as she breathes out and begins to touch herself, fingers tracing along the inside of her thighs and over her outer lips. 

He sounds like a man with big hands. Big hands and a big cock. Probably circumcised. She’s never been with a circumcised man before. 

Rey presses her fingers through her folds and drags them over the smooth wet skin inside. She takes her time from her clit to her entrance as goosebumps rise on her skin and her nipples stiffen and become more sensitive. With her other hand, she pinches one of them hard, twists, then lets up and caresses her breast more gently. She imagines what it would feel like to have his hands on her and his cock inside her, to feel his knot lock into her at the moment of climax as he spills into her, to feel his mouth at her throat and his tongue gliding along her neck.

She’s getting ahead of herself. First he might back her up against the bed. She might fall onto it. He might pin her beneath him, his weight on her hips and chest, his breath on her throat. 

In her fantasies it feels safe to be held down, restrained by someone stronger than she is, gripped and plowed into. She knows that’s the Omega speaking for her, and it’s the only time it doesn’t really bother her. This is hers, and she’s in control of it. She knows how to take care of herself like this. It’s arousing in itself to know she can, that she doesn’t actually need anyone else. The soft sleeves of her robe twist a little as she plants her feet on the mattress and changes the angle of her arm to slip two fingers inside herself. The pressure from the cloth is just enough that it might be two hands at her shoulders or squeezing her biceps. His hands. 

She’s coating her own palm now, she can hear the slide of her skin, the soft sucking as her fingers pump in and out and she adds a third, slowly, and moans from the sensation of the slow stretch of her muscles. Her clit aches for attention but she denies it. He would make her wait. She likes the gradual build. He would bury his face at the curve of her neck and breathe so deep, he would buck into her and leave finger marks on her skin as she cries out and begs for him not to stop, not to leave, not to let her go. And he wouldn’t because in that moment she’d be his.

She nudges the knuckle of her thumb against her clit and increases the pressure, rubbing lightly and pressing, thrusting her hips up again and again until her back bows, three fingers curling, and finally she comes with a broken gasp and sweat sheening her chest. Her room is empty when she opens her eyes and she feels alone. It’s disappointing, the lack of a body to curl against after. Given the state she’s in and the body she’d like beside her, that’s probably a good thing. She wraps around a body pillow instead and wonders if she should confess this.


	3. Use It Next Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading!

After a few Saturdays, Ben is beginning to think she is not a regular parishioner at all. 

He’s presided over at least one of every Mass time since she started coming to confess, even the Sunday nine o’clock French service, and he has never detected her scent at a single one. And he  _ would _ , because at this point he can tell when she’s arrived in the chapel long before she enters the confessional. Her scent creeps under the door and hangs around him like a cloud of the sweetest incense. 

Over the last week or so, he has started to up his suppressant dosage. It’s helped with the urge he has every Saturday to walk out there where she waits and drag his face over the glands at her neck and wrists. It hasn’t helped with any of the rest. Certainly not the number of long late-night showers he's been taking lately. Like he's horny teenager instead of a horny thirty-year-old priest. Almost thirty.

Which is why he’s positive that today he is being punished for each and every time he’s jerked off thinking about her and speculated about how her voice would sound cracking at the sensation of him knotting her.

“I’ve had impure thoughts,” she says, lowering her voice like someone aside from him is suddenly going to hear. Like this, though, just above a whisper, the sound makes him shiver. It makes him think she could be having them right now. “Sexual fantasies, I mean. Often. A lot, especially the last month or so.”

He almost says he has too. He also almost gets an erection, but by some fluke things don’t get that serious. He feels like he’s just avoided a death sentence.

But God help him, she’s not done. 

“And I’ve, um. Well. Acted on them. With myself. And, er . . . implements.”

The blood rushes to his cock again, and this time he does get a little hard. Nothing he can’t hide fairly easily, though it’s on the verge, and he’s glad he’s alone in here anyway. This has never happened to him before. Hearing confessions, even those that touch on more carnal topics, is usually the opposite of a turn-on, a surefire boner-killer, and he has no idea what he’ll do if his next penitent decides to eschew the screen. He hopes that the rest of this confession is patently unsexy, but he knows it’s hopeless. She could be confessing to stealing ketchup packets and plastic spoons from a dingy gas station convenience store, and he’d still want to rip her clothes off, bend her over, and rut her into the wall.

“I don’t need to be more detailed, do I?” She waits a few moments, and he just stares at the screen. “Father Ben?”

He coughs, and his cock jostles uncomfortably against the front of his pants. This is the first time she’s ever asked about how  _ detailed _ she needs to be. Sometimes she’s quite candid—more each time, frankly, like she wants a conversation or a friend, and he feels that she must be lonely. Sometimes she’s more sparse, as she was at her first session. Now though?  _ That question _ ? It sounds almost as if she’s asking him if he wants to hear how she touches herself, what sorts of toys she uses, and whom she’s thinking about when she does it. And the honest answer is yes, he would very much like to hear about all of that, and maybe watch.

Of course that is not what she’s asking. She’s probably embarrassed. Unsure, because she’s never confessed  _ this _ before. Maybe she fears he is judging her; maybe he’s the first person she’s ever told. If he did tell her to be more specific . . .

Furious and ashamed, Ben prays for self-control and silently upbraids himself for even thinking such a thing. He clenches his fists until his tendons ache and his nails leave four shallow pink crescents on each palm.

“No, you don’t need to be more specific.” He glares down at the now obvious bulge between his legs, like he might be able to intimidate his erection into submission. No such luck. “You can . . . continue on, if there’s anything else.”

There are some other things, but not a lot, and he detects a hint of disappointment in her voice as she mentions lying to one of her friends back in England about some plans they had to FaceTime. Or maybe he’s just imagining that, because  _ he’s _ disappointed, though he’s positive her scent has taken on a bitter tang. It smells the way unripe fruit tastes. Somehow he gets through the rest of it, and by the time they’ve done the final prayer, his cock isn’t even that hard anymore. A real miracle. He ought to call the Vatican.

He thinks they’re done. He’s told her to have a good evening. She’s said thank you. And then— 

“Actually. I’m sorry, Father. I have— Is it all right if I ask a question before I go?”

His stomach flips, and he very seriously considers telling her there are others waiting. But there probably aren’t. She is nearly always his last, like she plans it that way. And such curtness is, technically, frowned upon.

“Sure.”

“I was wondering lately if anyone just comes here to talk?”

“To talk?”

“Yeah, like . . . unload a bit. Chat. Get their head right. Nothing official or anything. Just . . . talk.”

He wants to laugh, because yeah, that would be a nice thing to have about now. “Do you mean spiritual guidance?”

There’s a pause. “Oh. I guess so. If that’s a thing.”

“It is. If you’re interested, you could speak with Monsignor Canady about it after Mass tomorrow. Father Ransolm is usually available. I’m told he’s a very good spiritual advisor.”

“Father Ransolm? Hm.” She says the name like this is the first time she’s ever heard it. Another stretch of thoughtful silence, though he already knows what she is going to say. That bitter sizzle is still leaking through the screen and making him want to sneeze. “No, that’s all right. Spiritual guidance isn't really my thing. I was thinking of something more general. Thanks again.” Her feet shuffle over the floor. “See you next week?”

“It might be better if you didn’t have a reason to, don’t you think?”

He’s not sure he was making a joke, but she issues a dry laugh. “Probably. And yet I always seem to end up here.” 

+

Rey is giving some serious thought to trying out the whole church thing. More thought than she was in April, at least, when all this started. Just one weekend. It’s not even religious interest. It’s just that now it’s June, and she really wants to see what Father Ben looks like. Slake her curiosity. The fact she’s gone this long without finding out, even by accident, seems bizarre, but it’s true. 

She never stays in the chapel after finishing with him. She hasn’t run past St. Ailbe’s since that first day she had to do so by necessity. She hasn’t done a Google search on the parish. Hell, priests are on Facebook these days, right? She could have done any of that, easily, and caught a glimpse. 

It’s this weird thing where she wants to see him, and she’s scared to see him. It might make the way she feels worse. Harder to compartmentalize. At this point his voice is probably the most tantalizing thing she’s ever heard, and she’s become so fixated on his scent that she’s bought five different brands of coffee-scented candles in the hope of emulating it during her solo sessions with the relief drawer and its many offerings. She’s started using her toys when she does it, too, and she can’t believe she ever fantasized about anyone other than Ben Solo.

Father Ben.

The last thing she should do is put herself through an hour of hearing him speak and watching him lead a roomful of worshippers in a sacred ritual. She would need to bring a change of underwear, for one thing, and she doubts that’s protocol. Worse still, she would barely be able to keep her hands out of her pants. Or his. Rushing the altar and ripping him out of his vestments would surely make a memorable first impression and end with her being banned from church property. She may be exaggerating her worries a bit, but not as much as she would like, and the sentiment behind them is valid. 

That’s decided, then. Rey is not going to start going to Mass just to get hot and bothered over the priest. Not even the cheerful “All Welcome!” sign outside the door will convince her. She has her doubts about that anyway.

She does get an idea, though, one Saturday as she does her usual routine of waiting in the chapel and pretending she’s going to have the willpower not to walk into the confessional to deliver another litany of half-true, half-made-up sins. (Christ, she really thought she had him the one week—she thought he’d ask for more information about her sexual habits; she’d given him the opening, caught his scent surging, and yet  _ nothing. _ ) While she watches, she notices something she hasn’t before: someone has just walked into the priest’s side of the confessional. Not Father Ben’s; the other one. Canady or Ransolm, she assumes. She’s heard those names a few times now. 

So, wait just a damn minute. People can confess without the screen? She had no idea. The realization is mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. The movies have lied to her all these years. Her solution has been right there for two months and she had no bleeding idea. She could do it today. Right now.

Rey is not going to do it today, right now. The sudden reality of it, once the initial excitement has worn off, is intimidating. If she is going to look Father Ben in the face, if she’s going to put herself in a room with him—a small room, an  _ intimate room _ —she is going to need to prepare a bit more. Mentally, sure. Screw up a bit more courage. Get her head wrapped around it enough that she can be confident she’ll be able to control any urges she might have. She’s had this image in her mind, lately, of him standing to slide the screen open so she can suck him off right there in the confessional, on her knees, like it’s some sort of holy glory hole. And another, tamer but more sensual, of licking her way up his neck, clerical collar and all, and offering him hers. Offering him a whole lot. She wants to be sure she won’t try to act it out when she actually sees said neck. 

Next week, Rey will walk into the right-hand side of the confessional, and she’ll finally put a face to the voice, a body to the scent. The mystique will be shattered. First, she is going to spend a few days increasing her dose of suppressants.

+

It is nearly four-thirty, and this is the first week since April that she has not shown up and sought him out for confession. Ben’s first thought is that he must have done something to cause it. Said something abrasive and caused offense. It’s selfish and egotistical when the real reason is probably far more mundane, but he can’t help it. It almost pisses him off, like he’s been robbed of something he deserves.

What he really deserves is a good telling-off; except, and here’s the really fucked up part, he hasn’t confessed any of this to Monsignor Canady. When it comes to his own confessions, he has not-so-artfully omitted any and all issues pertaining to this faceless Omega, her weekly visits, and his now almost nightly sins of the flesh in her name. Every time she shows up it feels like he’s being handed a shovel and told to dig himself deeper. It would be great if he could blame her, but this is  _ his _ weakness, his wrongdoing, his insistence on continuing to indulge it, his perverse delight in not confessing it. Yes, she is a temptation—she’s an Omega, he’s an Alpha, some would say it’s been their lot since Eden—but he doesn’t have to accept. 

So while her absence is an infuriating disappointment, it’s also for the best. He can’t smell her waiting outside. The time is almost through. Maybe he’ll have a relatively normal week for once.

The door opens,  _ his door _ , and he hopes this one will be quick—and then he catches her scent. It’s buried under oppressive blockers that reek of something disappointingly generic, like dish soap, but he would know her anywhere. It explains why he didn’t think she was here. He wonders why she has decided to conceal her scent more than the suppressants alone manage to do.

“Hi, Father.” 

She’s closed the door behind her and is looking expectantly between him and the chair facing him. He stares at her like he’s never seen a human woman before. His entire body tightens up, because for an instant what he really wants to do is lunge. 

The suppressants collar him. _He doesn’t_ really _want to do that, does he?_

_No, he certainly doesn’t,_ his moral fortitude agrees.

“Can I sit there?” Her brow twitches, and she gestures to the empty chair. “Or do you prefer to take me standing?”

He would prefer to take her supine and spread out on a bed, with her legs wrapped around him and her sweat mixing with his as he buries himself to the hilt.

And that, _that_ is the Alpha, giving the middle finger to suppressants and moral fortitude alike.

_ Stop. _

She must be doing this on purpose. Does she know he recognizes her? She has to.

He nods once, affecting indifference, and sits up straighter. “You should sit.”

She does, and then she looks at him some more, and he looks back. The first thing he notices is that her pupils are so dilated he can barely make out the color of her irises, and her nose is twitching a little like she’s trying to allay an itch. She’s pretty. Of course she is. He decided that on day one. Her hair is chestnut brown and sleek, pulled back in a ponytail that swings when she moves. She has a delicate but serious face with a high forehead, wide, lightly glossed lips, arched brows, and beautiful bright eyes (hazel, he notices, as she relaxes and her pupils shrink). There are freckles on her nose and cheeks. She’s wearing a black sundress that reveals her collarbones and shoulders, and aged Chuck Taylors that he supposes were white at some point.

It strikes him that she’s sort of tall for a woman and athletically built. The muscles of her arms are well-defined. She looks him right in the eye and keeps her chin level. She doesn’t have the stooping posture he’s used to seeing people subconsciously adopt in the presence of an Alpha. If not for her scent, he would never have taken her for an Omega at all. But pheromones don’t lie, and he doesn’t want her any less now than he did before. In fact, the way she sits there almost proudly makes him want to dominate her and put her in her place, and he is reminded how much he fears and hates that part of himself.

Her chest rises once, very quickly, and she issues a nervous laugh.

“I didn’t know you could do it this way. Face-to-face, I mean.”

“Should I have told you? You never asked.”

“I just wondered what it was like.” She looks at him quizzically. “The screen is very monotonous.”

“It’s not meant to be exciting.” He waits for her to respond, but she’s still just looking. “I’ve never seen the appeal of this, myself. People think it’s . . . friendlier.”

He can’t help the way he sneers a little, and she catches it and cocks her head. 

“But you don’t?”

“I think friendly isn’t the point. You’re still here to make a confession, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t usually feel bad about treating someone brusquely, but he does now. Yet she doesn’t seem bothered.

“Yes.” 

“So whether I can see you or not makes no difference.”

Ben feels as if he is trying to convince himself of that and doing a very bad job. It makes an enormous, dangerous difference, with her. Her eyebrows contract a little. She crosses her ankles and tucks her feet under the chair, tugging her skirt down over her knees. 

“But it’s good to see a person’s face when you speak to them,” she says. Her nostrils flare, and she scratches the bridge of her nose as if to cover it up. “Now I know what you look like.”

He ignores that, and the way it implies that she has been wondering. And the way she is looking at him now. He’s been looked at that way before, by Omegas, women, men, parishioners, cashiers. For once, he’d like to return it—the flash of wanting, the eager interest, the latent hunger. But he can’t, so he doesn’t.

“Are you ready to begin?”

The woman narrows her eyes as if annoyed and begins to speak. A beat late, she mirrors him as he crosses himself; she touches her right shoulder before her left, as if she’s confused. Or has never done it before. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession . . .”

But he doesn’t think she’s actually annoyed or offended—he knows what she smells like when she is, that unripened fruit scent, and even masked by blockers, she smells miraculous. Sweeter than ever. It’s very possible she’s happy about this. In a way, the blockers make her more difficult to ignore. The fact that he can’t quite grasp her the way he usually does increases the temptation to pin her down beneath him and get as close as possible.

Silly thing, to think she could be so provocative and he wouldn’t notice. That he wouldn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

It isn’t her fault. This is not her fault, no more than it’s his fault that he’s so distracted trying to keep his body under control— _ do not lean in; do not stare at her neck, her wrists, her breasts, her thighs, her lips; do not breathe in too deeply; do not pop a goddamn boner— _ that he barely hears what she’s saying to him. Even prayers won’t help much right now. Ben angles himself away from her a bit and folds his hands in his lap. He tries to make it look casual.

As if she notices his discomfort (his struggle, his conflict; he’s not  _ uncomfortable, _ dammit), her confession today is blessedly short. Or maybe she, unlike him, has just had a less sinful week. It is easy to pretend that that’s why he gives her a short, straightforward penance, and that it’s not because he wants her out of the building as quickly as possible. Not that she ever stays behind anyway.

When she stands to leave, she pauses and lingers with her hand on the knob. “Thanks, Father Ben. It was nice to see you.”

“Have a good evening.” He’s already said that, and he knows. If he’s terse, he doesn’t care. He really needs her to go now.

“Rey.”

“What?” 

He looks at her sharply, and she’s got this little smile tugging at one side of her mouth, a dimple threatening to form at the corner of her lips.

“My name is Rey.” She turns to open to door, and his eyes catch on the smooth, slightly tan skin of the back of her neck, where some wisps of hair have fallen loose and are brushing her nape. He would like to brush them aside. “You could use it next time.”

  
  


Later that night he’s in the shower, and it’s the new usual: the farce of actually being in there to wash and the reality that he leaves a little dirtier each time. He reimagines the scene from earlier in the evening. Back in the confessional, she’s naked, and he has her pinned in the corner. The front of her body is pressed up against the wall, her hands splayed there above her head as he holds her wrists in place, her ass bouncing against his hips as he pummels her from behind, bending her forward a little more each time. It’s easy. She’s soaking wet. There’s slick everywhere. The whole room is redolent with it—with her, with him, and the way she begs him for more of this. He calls her many things, the sort of nonsense that’s only wrenched forth when he truly can’t stop it, but it’s only when he says her name, a low, desperate growl right in her ear, that she comes.

_ Rey. _

He comes too, and he hears her name echoing on the tiles of the shower, because he’s just said it, even if the brutal tightening around his cock is his hand clenching and not the perfection of her cunt. The sound of his cry can’t be as loud as he thought it was. Everything is magnified in here—sound, sensation, and shame. Still, he waits until there’s no trace of what he’s done left behind, and then he hastily returns to his room. He lays down in just his shorts because even in the dark, even with the air-conditioning, the air is close and hot, and he can swear it smells like her.


	4. See If This Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to glovekinkqueen and inmyownidiom for their beta-reading prowess!

Rey doesn’t think she will ever attend a single Mass, but that doesn’t mean she can’t see what St. Ailbe’s is like in other ways. A week ago she noticed a sign in the vestibule—the parish would be having a cookout at a local park to celebrate the end of summer. Sunday, eighteenth of August, after the noon Mass. Food, music, and games until dusk, all gratis for parishioners, which she is not. At this point, though, she figures if Father Ben hasn’t deduced her delinquent status, some random church member isn’t going to sniff it out, either.

Or maybe, he knows and he just doesn’t care. Maybe he likes their rapport and sees this as a game between the two of them, because he enjoys seeing her, hearing her, smelling her. Though if that were the case, he wouldn’t be so short with her. It’s as if the fact that she dared to cross the line of the screen has offended him or something. He didn’t look very happy to see her at all—but his scent told a different story. It had never been stronger or more delicious. Spicy and smoky. It no longer reminds her so much of coffee as the beans themselves, fresh and shiny, and the earth they were grown in. It’s a hand taking her by the back of the neck and demanding she look, listen, breathe, breathe deeper. 

His hands could do that, easily. Take her. Hold her. Make her do what he wants. She had been right. They were big. Her belly tightened. Her thighs tingled until they ached.

It was actually almost too much by the end. But she hasn’t done anything wrong.

And she isn’t doing anything wrong today, seeking friends and fellowship at the park. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is out, and the humidity is low despite the heat. She arrives a couple hours into the festivities. She figures by then most people will be distracted and having fun and less likely to notice someone they don’t know, and she’ll be able to scope out an ideal spot to settle in. Sure enough, the park is a commotion of people mingling. Lots of families. Kids everywhere. Some older folks sitting at shaded tables. Teenagers prowling the fringes and eyeing the coolers full of beer. It’s the sort of thing that usually makes her feel sad and alone because she’s always on the outside, but not today.

Rey makes a bee-line for the grills, which are currently manned by the priest she recognizes as Father Ransolm. He is very handsome, with a shrewd smile and a sort of aristocratic look to him. He’s dressed casually today, right down to the baseball cap covering his fair hair, flipping hamburgers and hot dogs with a certain flamboyance and stopping every so often to sip some lemonade. The burgers smell amazing, and she immediately begins loading a plate. She must have missed the fact that this was a potluck. She feels a little bad for not bringing anything to share—she’d have loved the chance to do a few full batches of her ginger biscuits.

As she’s trying to find a way to fit an extra scoop of potato salad onto her already struggling plate, she notices a pair of young men lurking near the desserts at the end of the table, watching her. She can tell they’re Alphas, and she can tell they know what she is too. She should have known this might happen, and while she’s grateful not to be in heat, that’s no guarantee she can avoid unwanted attention. She steels herself to tell them to piss off, then find a crowd to disappear into.

Instead, another shadow falls over her from behind. “Hungry?”

She gives a yelp of surprise and scoots out of the shadow as she turns, though she already knows it’s Father Ben. If not for the smoke and charcoal aroma from the grills, she’s positive she would have noticed him sooner.

She knew he would probably be here—it’s the main reason she came—but had not thought he would approach her. It seemed far more likely he would try to avoid her, and that Rey would need to track him down to say hello and kick off another strained interaction that would go nowhere. She is not prepared to be accosted by him and so taken by surprise that she nearly sends her mountainous plate of hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled corn, various mayonnaise-based salads, and watermelon tumbling tragically into the grass. 

Initial shock aside, now she sees: he has a reason. Here she is, a lone Omega, clearly in the sights of two Alphas. Everyone knows how that tends to go. So the fact that Father Ben has taken it upon himself to get involved only fills her with annoyance, because she didn’t ask for his help . . . though it makes her curious too. What exactly does he expect to get out of inserting himself into the situation? Why bother? It’s not like those two will think he has any kind of claim on her. He’s a  _ priest _ . 

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just the authority thing. This is, in a way, his domain. His responsibility to keep things in order. Hell, maybe he’s just trying to serve himself and she’s in his way. 

Doubtful. 

The sun’s in her eyes now, so she glares over at the two Alphas. Sure enough, they have become somewhat less interested in her. When she squints up at Father Ben, he’s glaring at them too, and his nostrils flare as his jaw clenches and sets a muscle in his cheek twitching. 

Unlike Father Ransolm, he’s wearing his priest clothes. She looked up what they’re called—clericals? The black shirt and pants with the white collar that always strikes her as sort of uncomfortable looking. He has the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and her eyes slide automatically over the bared skin of his thick forearms to his hands. 

For a moment she feels the way she did the first time she saw him and realized he is neither old nor hideous. No, he’s the very opposite. He’s probably only a few years older than her. He’s tall and broad-shouldered but doesn’t always seem comfortable in the space he commands, like he begrudges it. She likes his face. His features contradict themselves: he has a long nose and wide mouth, but full, almost pretty lips; his skin is pale but covered with birthmarks; his brow is prominent and his eyes deep set, but his jaw slopes gently to a soft chin. It isn’t the sort of face she usually expects of an Alpha, but it’s interesting and attractive, and his wavy dark hair, which just brushes his collar, looks like it would be pleasant to touch.

Rey realizes she is reaching up just in time to play it off as an embarrassed reflex—she massages her own shoulder a moment, then lets her hand drop. She tries to keep her voice even. “Oh, hi, Father.” 

“Hi,” he returns, his attention finally dragged from the other Alphas, who have walked off. His face is already relaxing, at least as much as she has ever seen it do. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Er. Yes?” It’s sort of a weird question. Maybe he thinks she’s come with family. What a joke that would be. Yet she can’t help wondering if it’s more an invitation. “Why?”

“Because it looks like you have enough food for at least three people.” He eyes her plate, eyebrows raised.

“Well, no. As you said before. Hungry.” 

Her gaze lands on his throat, and she forces herself to look elsewhere. She’s glad she took some time to herself this morning to dispel her mounting frustration on the off chance she would find herself in a situation like this, or this would be so much worse already.

“So, you and the Teedo brothers . . . not acquainted?”

It takes Rey a moment to realize he’s talking about the Alphas who were leering at her a minute ago. Until he’d shown up. 

“Not acquainted. I’ve never met them before. In fact, before you came round, I was just pondering the best way to tell them to fuck off when they inevitably tried to pick me up.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, and she can’t tell if it’s an aborted laugh or an effort to get her scent out of his face. “You were giving that impression. I thought I would lend a hand, if they were bothering you.”

Now Rey is really confused. Father Ben is not only speaking to her in full, natural sentences, but he sounds almost friendly. And, confirming her earlier curiosity, protective. It needles that feeling in her middle, the  _ tug _ , the one that wakes up at inconvenient moments to remind her there’s something she wants from this man. She can’t decide whether she wants to put him off or encourage him more. 

“Not necessary, but thank you anyway.” Fuck. That sounds like putting him off. Rey casts a look around and then back at him. “Have you eaten yet? I was just going to grab a drink and sit down with . . . all this.” She gestures to her plate. “You’re actually sort of the only person I know. I wouldn’t mind some company.”

His expression becomes difficult to read, like something behind his face has shut down. It’s a little unsettling, until suddenly he’s back and looking at her, gaze even. He’s crossed his arms over his chest, and while she knows it’s a bizarrely defensive posture for an Alpha to assume in the presence of an Omega, it’s hard to care about what it might mean when it makes the muscles in his forearms stand out so nicely. She’s pretty sure he is about to turn her down.

“Okay. Yeah, that’s fine. Go sit, I’ll find you.”

Rey is shocked it was that easy, but she smiles. “Great.”

“What’ll you have to drink?”

“Labatt’s good.”

He wrinkles his nose but says nothing, and they part ways.

  
  


“So is that something that happens often at these church picnics?” Rey asks after she swallows the mouthful of food she was chewing. Father Ben has just joined her, balancing their drinks and his own food (bold of him to judge the fullness of her plate—his is burdened with several grilled sausages and a burger, not even counting the sides). She’s claimed a table near the edge of the activity. In the distance, she can see a few people engaged in a game of volleyball.

“What?” He hands off her Labatt and cracks open his bottle of water as he sinks down into another chair—he leaves an empty one between them. “Eating?” 

“Alphas eyeing up all the unbonded Omegas.”

“Not all the time. But it’s a social situation. You’re new and available, so they notice you more. Just because it’s a church function doesn’t mean people stop acting like . . . people.”

Rey frowns and chokes down the swig of beer she’s just taken. “I’m not available.”

“Unbonded.”

“You’re unbonded, too. It doesn’t make you available to be propositioned. Right?”

He doesn’t look at her. In fact, he is suddenly very interested in the tiny printed words on the side of his bottle. “I understand what you’re saying, but people don’t make that distinction. You must know that.”

“That because I’m an Omega, I must have learned to roll over and deal with it by now?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Next you’re going to tell me I ought not to have dressed this way, right?” 

Admittedly, she herself was beginning to wish she hadn’t worn shorts and a cute sleeveless T-shirt as she was bracing for an annoying interaction with the Teedos, but now that the moment has passed, she’s irritated by the thought. 

“How you’re dressed has nothing to do with it,” Father Ben mutters. “And of the two of us, I suspect you’re far more comfortable right now.”

She notices his eyes flick over her, like they’re afraid to settle but also really want to.

“Look, all I mean . . .” Rey shakes her head, trying to figure out what his point is. “I’m not a very good Omega. In fact, I’m a really shit one. And I know you’re an Alpha, so you have no idea what that’s like, but you must deal with it too, as a priest. The bullshit. What, like the collar is that much of a deterrent? Some people would just take it as a challenge, you know.”

Father Ben frowns. “That’s their failing, not mine.”

Typical Alpha rhetoric. She chews slowly to give herself a few extra moments to think. By the time she swallows, she’s decided she would prefer to start over. “Sorry. Never mind. Bad analogy, or something. I’m not that good at starting conversations.”

“You might have noticed, neither am I.”

That makes her smile, despite herself. “But you’re a good listener.” He just frowns again, so she tries to lighten things up further. She assumes a conspiratorial tone and leans across the empty chair between them. “Would it be easier if I told you something bad I’ve done recently?”

“What, since yesterday?”

He has a point. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since she last saw him.

“Sure.”

“You could, but I’m not on the clock right now, so I’d rather you didn't.”

“Er . . .”

The right side of his mouth curves into a smirk. “I’m joking.”

“Oh.” She chuckles, straightens up, and prods at a lump of potato. “So was I.” 

The bastard, he’s raising an eyebrow and giving her this  _ look _ . Probing. 

“You sure about that?” 

No, she’s really not. She’d love to sit here and see his reaction as she tells him how she fucked herself with a dildo just a few hours after her confession the evening before, gripping the headboard of her bed while imagining herself naked astride his (also naked) lap, in the confessional chair, riding him until they were both sore and gasping for breath. It was part of this weird thing where her penance for fantasizing about him involved fucking him, and yeah, it didn’t make any sense and was completely circular logic, but who said it had to make sense? He made the most beautiful sounds, and it was exciting to know he could stop it any time he wanted but wasn’t, and that she would smell like him for hours after.

If it was real. Which it wasn’t.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She tries for a jaunty wink, but is pretty sure it just comes off as lascivious. Or an eye spasm. “Maybe next weekend.”

Father Ben nods and lapses into the thoughtful silence she’s more accustomed to, then turns to her and asks, “How’s work?”

“Much the same. Still designing our future robot overlords.”

“Ah. Put in a good word for me with them, in that case.”

She snickers and takes a long draft of her beer. It’s such a stupid, mundane topic, one she doesn’t really want to talk about right now—but once again it’s a reminder that he remembers things about her, which means there’s some extent to which he cares. She knows he’s not the kind of man to ask about things for the sake of polite small talk. He’s not a people-pleaser. So if he’s asking, he’s actually interested. And it turns out to be the conversation starter they needed, despite his claims to having no proclivity for it. They talk for the better part of an hour, and out here in the middle of a park on a beautiful day in late-summer, Rey starts to feel as if she’s talking to a friend. Or someone who could be a friend, if not for the part where he’s also a priest she rather desperately wants to fuck. He’s off-limits, which just makes him more tempting. That’s all it is.

Why did he have to wear the damn collar today? Does he ever wear anything else?

Even so, the easiness of it makes her bold enough to ask him, when they’re out of food and drinks and she’s starting to feel the need to stretch her legs, if he’d like to go over and join the volleyball game. He declines almost instantly and says he should make rounds, whatever that means. Other parishioners to socialize with, she guesses— _ actual _ parishioners. That’s fine, she’ll get him later. For what, she doesn’t know.

Except when she takes a break from the game, sweaty and exhilarated, he’s nowhere to be found. She waits around a while, figuring he won’t be hard to spot if he’s stepped away for the loo or to get something from his car, but after about fifteen minutes she’s pretty sure he’s bailed. She hasn’t seen him, and she sure as hell can’t smell him. It’s getting late anyway. The sun’s almost set, the crowds are starting to thin. This was something. She’ll see how it pays off next week.

  
  


She’s halfway home when she finds herself rethinking her optimism about the day. Just past a long, slow curve in the road, her motorbike shudders, the acceleration cuts drastically, and Rey has enough time to steer it onto the shoulder before it comes to a complete halt. 

“Oh, goddammit. Please, no.” 

The engine is still running in fits and starts, but the bike itself isn’t going anywhere. She shuts it off, tries the ignition switch a few times, tries choking it, all to no avail, then spews a colorful string of curses as she yanks her helmet off, pushes the kickstand down, and hops off. The sun is getting low, so she has to work quickly. She spends a couple minutes checking the fuel line, though she finds nothing amiss there, as expected. She doubts it’s the fuel itself—the petrol here has never caused her any issues, and it’d be weird for it to start now. Machinery is clicking and hissing as it cools, and Rey debates whether she should call for a tow or keep trying to deduce the cause herself when a black pickup truck trundles by on the opposite side of the road. 

She barely registers it until its tires squeal against the pavement as the driver applies the brakes suddenly, makes a U-turn, and swerves into the shoulder about thirty yards behind her. It would be comedic, except Rey has little faith in the good intentions of someone pulling over in a big truck to help a lone woman at dusk on an otherwise empty road. She remembers the eyes of the Teedos on her at the picnic, and the eyes of plenty of Alphas before them. She thinks about how she’s heard far stranger things than Alphas setting their sights on an Omega and taking great, sometimes absurd, pains to get her (or him) alone.

For the second time today, Rey readies herself for a confrontation and eyes her swingarm bag where, amongst other things, she keeps a canister of Mace. She throws her jacket back on because it makes her look bigger and the smell and thickness of the leather make her feel safe, then turns to watch the pickup’s slow approach. As she listens to the crunch of gravel under the large tires, she squints at the windshield in an attempt to get an idea of what’s she’s dealing with here. Just a driver, alone, so maybe not those guys from the picnic, but there’s a whole world of entitled choads out there, and it’s a breezy night. After she worked up a sweat at the picnic, her scent could have traveled while she loitered around here diagnosing mystery mechanical problems.

Her hand brushes the clasp of her bag. 

Except . . .

The truck stops, the driver cuts the ignition, and she realizes she knows him. In fact, she was bemoaning his disappearance less than an hour ago. She takes a few steps forward as he opens the door and climbs out.

“Father Ben?”

He stops with one foot on the ground, one still in the truck, his arms leaning on the door. He’s rolled his sleeves back down, which she, like an idiot, takes as a personal affront. The breeze kicks up and ruffles his hair, and she gets an inhumanly strong puff of his scent mixed up with shampoo and shaving cream, and she wants to melt into the roadtop. 

“Rey.” His eyes narrow as he looks from her to the bike. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Rey draws her jacket around herself and ducks her chin, trying to smell it rather than him. All it does it magnify him. She coughs. “My bike’s a bit fucked, is all.”

“Have you called someone for a tow?”

She shakes her head as he exits the truck and shuts the door behind him. She simultaneously wishes he wasn’t walking toward her right now and that he would grab her and throw her into the truck bed and take her right there. To mitigate, she turns away and crouches beside the bike as he approaches. The grease and heated metal distract her. “No, not yet. If it’s something I can solve myself, I’d rather not waste the cash.”

“Fair enough. Want some help?”

Rey looks up over her shoulder at him. He’s keeping a respectful distance, hands on his hips, regarding the bike like he can figure it out just by staring sternly enough. She eyes his truck with skepticism. It looks old and sort of beat-up, though well cared for. “Do you know anything about motorbikes?”

“A little, actually.” He takes another step toward her. “Have you checked the fuel line?”

“Yep. Nothing wrong with it that I can tell. I was about to take a look at the spark plugs.”

“You have an Allen wrench? I’ve got some stuff in—”

“Course I do. I keep a kit there”—she gestures at the swingarm bag—“though if you want to keep a lookout while I work, I wouldn’t say no. It’s a bit creepy out here.”

“We’re ten minutes outside of town.”

“Ah, to be so fearless.” She throws another look at his truck. “Can you maybe turn your lights on? It’s getting hard to see.”

“What, no lantern in your bag of tricks?” 

But Father Ben chuckles darkly and does as she asks, and when he comes back he’s quiet while she works. After a minute or two, he can’t seem him help himself and begins to offer pointers, and since they’re not bad ones, Rey entertains them. He wasn’t lying—he actually does know what he’s talking about. When she asks him why as he sidles up to the other side and looks down into the engine with her, he gives some vague answer about his father having a penchant for motorcycles and teaching him how to run maintenance on them when he was a kid. He’s never owned one himself.

“What about you?” he asks, running a hand idly over the throttle. 

She could offer a generic answer about the choice, but she decides to give her real reasons, even if it might be a touch embarrassing. 

“Honestly? I like the noise. How loud they are. How fast and nimble. They feel strong and invincible but like they can get you away quick in a pinch, right?” She’s rambling now, half distracted, and can’t stop herself. “I like . . . the way it feels to be in control of it. Riding on top of power like that is . . . it’s— Erm.” 

Rey’s neck and chest get hot, and she knows she’s blushing. She knows that tight pulse of tension between her thighs. She also knows she’s made some sort of innuendo (God, she might as well have just said she likes the feel of it rumbling between her legs and been done with it) and that she’s never gotten aroused from telling someone about her vehicle preferences before, and she can’t bring herself to look at him. 

Instead she sniffles and presses the spark plug electrodes against the cylinder head. “Speaking of, can you try the engine? Gotta see if this sparks.”

There’s a lull. “Ah. Sure.”

The engine gives a guttering purr and the spark plug shows no sign of malfunction, thus exhausting her list of possible issues she can address by herself at the side of a quickly darkening road. 

“Well . . . shit,” she declares as Father Ben kills the engine. She puts everything back in place and closes up, wiping her hands on her thighs as she stands and brushing gravel from her knees. “A tow it is, then.”

She’s rummaging in the swingarm for her phone when he says, “If you’d rather, we can just load it into the bed. My truck. I can give you a ride to the service station, or your house. Whatever. It’s not far, right?”

Rey purses her lips and taps the darkened screen of her phone. What he’s suggesting is helpful and convenient. She looks at the truck. The cab seems no more snug or intimate than the front seat of a car. It’s a nice night, so they can drive with the windows down—he already has been, she notices. Her house is only another fifteen minutes or so away. It’ll be bearable. If she can survive sitting across from him in a confessional, she can survive a quick ride in his truck. 

“That sounds good. Do you have a ramp?”

It turns out he not only has a ramp, but ratchet straps, and it isn’t long at all before they have her bike loaded and tied down. Father Ben moves his bags of groceries (now she knows what he cut out of the picnic early for) out of the passenger seat and throws them into the bed, and they’re back on the road in no time. Even with the windows down, though, the cab smells strongly of him, and Rey does her best to ignore it as she pipes up with intermittent directions. She perches an elbow on the window frame to lean her head out and let the wind rush over her face.

“So I’ve told you why I drive what I drive,” she says when the silence becomes too much. She’s already considered asking him to put some music on, but it feels like an overstep. It would annoy her if the roles were reversed. “What’s with the truck? Doesn’t really scream suburban clergyman.”

Father Ben makes a face as they approach a traffic light that’s just turned red. She can tell he was thinking of speeding through the yellow. She’s not sure why she can tell, but she can—something about the way his hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles white, tendons showing through his skin. She can see a vein on his wrist popping, because he rolled his sleeves back up while they were tying her bike down. It’s prominent until halfway up his forearm and then fades. She would like to trace it with her tongue. Instead she glances at the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror and sighs heavily out the window.

“What would have screamed suburban clergyman to you? A mid-2000s Buick? Gray? Cloth seats? Religious bumper sticker? Jesus bobblehead on the dash?”

Rey laughs and unzips her jacket—even with the windows open, she’s far too warm, and she knows it’s only in part due to the late-summer weather. 

“Sure, I guess. I mean, at least you haven’t got the oversized tires and a fucking . . . metal ballsack hanging off the back bumper, but usually people who own these are making some sort of statement.”

“Never cared for the oversized tires. Though I tried to get away with the ‘fucking metal ballsack’—Monsignor wouldn’t have it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You did not.”

He flashes a tight smile at the windshield as they begin to move.

“Probably overkill for an Alpha, eh?” she adds, unable to stop herself. “You lot are always swinging your bollocks around anyway, no need to slap an extra set on your cars.”

“Can you—” His jaw tightens and he clears his throat, then shifts in his seat like he’s just gotten a leg cramp. “I take it camping and set the tent up in the bed. Mostly up in Algonquin Provincial Park, usually in the spring. Winter’s good too. Different. Quieter.”

“Oh. That sounds lovely, actually.” 

“It is. Peaceful. It’s a good place to pray. Maybe the best I’ve found. For me, at least. It’s much easier to find God in nature than in places like this.”

“Hm.” She’s not sure what to say to all that, really, but she remembers how handily supplied he was when they were dealing with her motorbike. “So, camping. Is that why all the tie-down stuff back there?”

She just manages to keep from jokingly suggesting he has a secret bondage kink, and his answer is so terse she wonders if he can somehow tell.

“Yep.” He shifts in his seat again and looks over at her briefly, then frowns. “Put your seatbelt on.”

“Huh? Oh, it’s fine. I don’t wear one on the bike, and I’ve managed to survive.”

“So what? Just put it on.”

Rey smiles slowly. “It really is fine, we’ll be at my place in five minutes. I’m already way more protected in here than I was before.”

Father Ben glowers and looks like he’s about to do something, but the light changes and they lurch through it. The engine roars with how fast he accelerates, which she thinks is a little overdramatic. And counterproductive, considering he’s supposedly getting himself in a state about her safety.

“Almost half the people who’re killed in a collision aren’t wearing seatbelts,” he says abruptly.

“What?”

“It’s even more in a truck. You reduce your risk by 60 percent.”

“Father—”

“If we get in an accident you could go flying out the windshield, and that’s it.”

“If I was that worried about it, I wouldn’t be driving a motorbike. I’m wearing shorts, for Christ’s sake. I clearly have a very wobbly understanding of self-preservation.”

“Just do it, will you? What is this, a principle thing?”

“It wasn’t, but it’s tempting to make it one.” Rey rolls her eyes. It is, slightly, a principle thing. “Maybe you should say a prayer that we don’t get in an accident between here and my place. You’ve got God’s ear, right?”

“Don’t be disrespectful,” he snaps, and she does feel a little bad, in that very visceral, Omega way that she can usually put in its place. It’s harder when he does it. Just his tone, authoritative and sharp. She doesn’t really like it, but part of her does and would like to hear him speak that way to her again.

He continues to mutter something under his breath but relents, or she thinks he does, until they get to another red light. The truck rolls to such an agonizing, gradual stop, she’s sure he’s doing it on purpose. He puts the truck in park, which strikes her as weird. And then he lunges.

Rey yelps and flattens herself against the back of her seat as Father Ben leans over her, one long arm reaching over her chest, his other hand planted on the side of her seat, right beside the headrest. Her heart is in her throat, but she’s freaking out over nothing. All he’s done is grabbed her seatbelt and started pulling it across her, glaring the whole time.

“What are you— I said it’s—” 

Rey’s strangled protests are cut short when she breathes in. His head is right in front of her face. He’s practically touching her. And shit, she can smell him,  _ really _ smell him, so much it verges on taste, he’s that close.

While her brain struggles to make sense of it and remind her she’s in control, her body has other ideas. No, she is not in control. She is not in control of the way she dips forward just enough to press her face to the side of Father Ben’s neck, right at the warm slope of skin between his ear and his trapezius, where one of his scent glands is hidden behind his hair. She’s not in control of how deeply she breathes in, or of how she moves closer still until her lips are pressed to his skin and her nose is flattened against him. She can feel a faint layer of stubble at the angle of his otherwise smooth jaw where he missed a spot shaving. Her hand is clutching his arm, and he’s frozen over her with her seatbelt half pulled across as she takes another long breath. A rapid pulse of heat washes over her.

She realizes what she’s done—what she’s still doing—and struggles to make her mouth form words. An apology. A request. Instead her heart is pounding. She’s wet, really wet, and her breasts are so sensitive she thinks she might scream when his arm brushes them through her thin T-shirt and even thinner bra, and the only thing keeping her from reaching down to unzip her shorts is the fact that she’s digging all ten fingers into his arms right now. His biceps are large and very solid. 

And he’s . . .  _ oh God. _

Father Ben has turned his head, too. His face is resting at her neck. He is  _ nuzzling her jaw _ , and she hears him breathe in. The seatbelt glides back into place by her right ear with a clatter. His hand closes around her upper arm and grips so tightly she thinks she’ll lose feeling there in a minute or so. He exhales and makes a sound, a shaky sigh that’s more like a moan when it ends, caught in his throat. Their cheeks are now pressed flush together, right to right, so she can feel how hot his face becomes in an instant and the way his jaw clenches. His lips open against her skin, her pulse racing just beneath. 

He shifts closer, like if he weren’t strapped in by his own stupid seatbelt he’d already have her seat back and have her body pinned underneath his. She hears his seatbelt catch, stretched to its limit, and then she hears it creak and strain.

A car horn blares behind them, and Father Ben leaps back so fast she’s surprised he doesn’t go flying out the windshield himself. Her mind is still sluggish, but the sound has startled her enough that she notices the light has turned green. The person behind them lays on the horn again, then speeds around on their left as a hand darts out the passenger-side window to flip them off. Father Ben returns the gesture and sticks his head out his window.

“Well fuck you too, you knotless fucking shitheel!” he bellows, then slams his foot on the gas.

When Rey dares to look at him out of the corner of her eye, he is breathing as hard as she is. His face is flushed, his eyes are wide, his nostrils flaring, his jaw stiff. He is gripping the wheel like he wants to strangle it. He is not looking at her. Her eyes dart down to his lap and then away. She finds just what she was expecting to find, because if she’s a slick mess between her legs, of course he’s hard. And big, from the look of it. It makes her face even hotter. They reach her condo two minutes later, but it’s the longest two minutes of her life, and it feels like the temperature in the cabin is holding at a steady 35 degrees Celsius. 

She’s so distracted and humiliated that she almost forgets to tell him when to pull over.

“Oh, stop, it’s here.” Her voice sounds weak and stupid, as if she’s just figured out how to talk and has yet to discover multisyllabic words. Naturally, she keeps talking. “Please. This one. Thanks.”

Father Ben inhales sharply and almost hops the curb when he pulls over. Rey has unlocked the door and is bolting out onto the sidewalk before he even has the parking brake engaged. She’s halfway up the walkway to her door by the time she realizes she’s forgotten her motorbike, and by extension her phone and everything else that’s stowed in the swingarm. All she has on her is her keys, zipped into her jacket pocket, and her helmet. No, scratch that—the helmet’s long ago tumbled out of her lap and is probably on the floor of the cab, which still reeks of whatever just happened in there.

_ Fucking fuck. _

Rey turns and stares at the idling truck. Her head is swimming. Father Ben hasn’t moved. Literally. He’s sitting there with both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead, motionless. If his posture wasn’t so rigid she would wonder if he’s died. Maybe that’s a thing—priest struck down by righteous deity for inappropriate gland sniffing and impressive (but also inappropriate) erection. She sort of wants to die a little, actually. Because then she’d feel nothing, which is easier than feeling this massively turned on with so much still standing between her and the relief drawer.

She tugs at the legs of her shorts and decides he just needs a few more minutes to get himself together. He’s sparing them both, frankly. Getting her bike down from the truck will be a lot easier if she’s not trying to avert her eyes from his cock bulge. It’s already going to be a struggle, so she’ll take what she can. She stays there on the walkway until he finally shuts the truck off and gets out.

Once he has the bed open, she steels herself and joins him. When he tells her to take care of the straps on the right side (“ _ Get the right _ ,” that’s all), she doesn’t argue or comment or even voice her assent. It probably doesn’t take them much longer to get it down than it did to get it loaded, but it feels like it does. She can smell him the whole time; there’s no way around it. Aggressively spicy, the smoke almost choking. She’s going to need to spend an hour in the tub at least. 

As he climbs in, she darts around to the cab to grab her helmet before she forgets that again. He looks at her in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just—” Rey shakes her head and shrinks back, slams the door, then holds the helmet up. “Got to grab this.” 

“Right.”

“Um. Thank you. For the ride.”

His “You’re welcome” is lost over the sound of the truck ignition, and he’s driving off before she can figure out what else to say.


	5. The Beginnings of Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back and thanks for reading!

The week after her motorcycle broke down, Rey shows up for confession, and neither of them mentions anything that happened in the truck. She’s acting so normal, Ben could almost believe nothing happened at all. Except she’s using more scent blockers than ever, and he would bet that she has increased her suppressants too, just as he has. He’s been trying to keep an eye on his doses. He knows it’s not advisable to overdo them—take just enough to stave off ruts and even out the hormonal spikes, no more—but he’s of the opinion that, in this case, the alternatives would be far worse.

He starts adding in extra blockers as well: topicals, shampoos, shower gels, all that. Confessions with Rey don’t change much, beyond becoming a bit less formal. She’s quite forthcoming about a lot of things, and she’s no longer so hesitant about the prayers or parts of the sacrament. She is careful but friendly. He knows she stills wants something else from him. And he knows what that is, because he wants the same thing. None of it is easy. He should advise her to go to Ransolm or Canady for confession from now on. He should establish an absolute boundary. He should confess what he has done. But he doesn’t, because he would miss her. He’d miss even the suggestion of her scent. He’d miss her voice, and her face, and her presence. Even though she’s been showing up to more and more church activities—volunteer days, bake sales, soup kitchen visits—and she makes sure to find him at each and every one, the confessional is the only place he has her all to himself. 

It’s utterly sinful, and he’s utterly unrepentant. The guilt gets worse, but Father Ben knows how to deal with guilt. It’s amazing what a person can learn to live with. It might not be so bad if he could see an end to it, though. Some logical conclusion. Because when he examines his conscience and tries to figure out what he wants or expects to come of this, the answer is never anything good. It is certainly nothing allowable.

There is an exemption, for things like this. Sometimes. For Alphas in the clergy; the Church made it official around the same time they started requiring the use of suppressants for priests and religious. It’s exceptionally rare and heavily scrutinized because the veracity of something like a true mate, a perfect bond,  _ copula absolutus,  _ whatever colloquialism one wants to use, is difficult to measure and prove. There are tests, and paperwork, and limitations, and layers of bureaucracy. It can take years. Ben can’t believe he is even thinking about something like this, though at his weakest moments, when she’s just left the confessional and her pheromones linger in the air, he wonders if it could be possible. But when he’s thinking more clearly, he makes himself accept that it isn’t what is happening here—he would know if it was. He would have to, right? The idea that something like that could happen to him, with  _ her _ , is impossible to believe. 

No, this is just . . . lust, loneliness, and the worst of his Alpha urges preying on his weaknesses. Even praying about it, asking for guidance, feels too shameful, because it’s an admission of desire for it.

He begins to devise situations in which he doesn’t need to do anything at all. Situations in which Rey gets bored and stops showing up—he is left to wonder what he did to cause it; she takes up with some guy, maybe a Teedo or that friend she talks about in England, maybe someone else,  _ anyone else _ , just not him—the envy is overwhelming and adds a new sin to his already mounting pile; she leaves altogether, moves to another city or province, or goes back to London—and he is utterly, irreparably devastated by the empty space she leaves behind. 

He doesn’t want any of these to actually play out, but they’d remove some of the responsibility. Apparently on top of everything else, on top of being a hypocrite, he is also a coward. 

  
  


It has now been six months since this began. It’s the end of October, and it’s the first day that actually feels like autumn. There’s a bracing breeze, and the smell of dry, dead leaves hangs in the crisp afternoon air. Today Ben and a handful of parishioners are participating in a 5K charity race about an hour outside of town. It’s the one church social activity that he actually looks forward to and enjoys being tasked with organizing. Once the race is over, there’s supposed to be a cookout and bonfires, and people will be welcome to use the lake and hiking trails near the course. 

Naturally, Rey Stafford is one of the names he sees on the attendance list when he reviews it that afternoon, ticking off participants as they arrive. He knew she was coming, because she told him she was. And because he might have lightly encouraged her to sign up in the first place. The sight of her name makes his body prickle with excitement anyway. Maybe if he ignores that feeling and lets it build up enough, he can channel it into his running.

The rumble of Rey’s bike announces her arrival about thirty minutes before race time. When he catches sight and scent of her, he only allows himself a few seconds to stare, but it’s more than enough to make his mouth go dry. Her black running leggings leave nothing of her shape to the imagination and accentuate the strength in her calves and the firm curve of her ass. She’s wearing a baggy gray T-shirt, which might have mitigated the issue, except the chilly air is clearly having an effect on her body, and he can see the way her nipples poke up against the fabric. That’s enough staring, if he wants to avoid disturbing the parishioners. 

Rey is blessedly occupied with warm-up stretches and casual, cordial chatter with fellow runners, so his interactions with her are confined to a brief hello as she checks in. Still, he catches her eyes drag once over him, from his neck to his knees.

“You know,” she says, fighting a smile. “I sort of had a bet going with myself about whether you’d run in your priest stuff. I didn’t even know you owned other clothing.”

“Vestments look nice on the altar, but they aren’t very aerodynamic.”

Not the best deflection, but God, he’s trying. Failing—it just makes Rey laugh, and her nose crinkles, and Ben presses his fingers hard into the back of the tablet. 

“The black thing with the collar looks nice too, though. Bit more snug.” Her eyebrows lift. “Less fabric flying in the wind. Goes well with this beard thing you have going on, I bet.”

He rubs a hand over the goatee he’s been growing—too much on his mind lately to bother shaving. Now he wonders if he’ll ever want to.

“When they start making clericals out of sweat-wicking fabric, I’ll consider it.”

“Hmm.” 

She looks him over one last time, not even trying to hide it. He wonders if this is what it feels like for her sometimes, subjected to the gaze of cocksure, presumptuous Alphas. He wonders if he has ever done it to her and not realized. Though he can’t imagine that she enjoys it the way he is reluctantly enjoying this—being the object of such inappropriate interest, by an unduly bold Omega, no less. 

She points at his chest. “This is pretty cool though.”

He glances down at his shirt. It’s a dark blue T-shirt he was given not long after being assigned to St. Ailbe’s, with the parish name and logo, a staring she-wolf, emblazoned in silver.

“Very ‘winter is coming’,” she adds with a quirked eyebrow. grin. “You look good, Father. I think you made the right decision.”

“Good to know.” He fixes his eyes on the tablet screen to avoid the possibility he’ll start ogling her instead. Her scent is bright and sweet today, and it has just started to come a bit stronger. “You’re set, by the way. Accounted for. You should go get your number from the race coordinators, I’m just making sure our team is here.”

“Oh. Right—thanks. See you on the course?”

“Probably. Hope you like the view from behind.” 

“Funny, I was going to say the same to you.”

Rey blinks and her face turns pink, and Ben realizes what he’s said and what she’s said back a half-second too late as she turns and walks off to get her numbered race bib.

  
  


“Sorry, Solo, don’t think there are any showers on the grounds. I already checked, and it’s a tragedy.” Ransolm claps Ben on the shoulder and chuckles. “You’ll have to save one of those long showers of yours until we get back to Ailbe’s. Think your luscious mane will survive the evening without all that attention?”

He stops short of ruffling Ben’s hair, which is good, because Ben is not sure he’d be able to stop himself from snapping Ransolm’s arm if he did. “As you can see, I’m managing.”

Ben stalks off before Ransolm can continue ribbing him and consoles himself with the thought that he left Ransolm and pretty much all of the Ailbe’s group well behind him in the race. He should have waited at the finish until the rest of their team came in, but instead he bolted immediately to the restrooms to change out of his sweaty clothing. Sweat has the funny effect of making scent stronger, and the last thing he needs is to spend the next few hours dodging Rey because he’s afraid of revisiting their unfortunate misstep two months ago. If he was really being smart about this, he would avoid her anyway. He already knows that will not happen. Still, the fresh clothing helps—a lightweight gray flannel, a black jacket, a pair of dark jeans, black boots—and he manages to make it halfway through a beer by the time she finds him. 

“Drinking already!” she declares. “And in seclusion. They say that is the beginnings of trouble, Father.”

“It’s almost six o’clock.”

“The seclusion bit stands.”

Ben has commandeered a spot by the lake, tucked away near some fir trees and rocks. He figured it was a good place to find some quiet, try to think or even pray—but mostly to hide from Ransolm and the fifteen other parishioners on their team. One of them brought cupcakes, which would have been fine, except Ben realized about a second too late that it was because someone (Ransolm, of course) had tipped the team off that his birthday is in a few days. After enduring several minutes of torturous celebration, he excused himself to the restroom and took the opportunity to disappear into the woods instead. 

It’s been working out pretty well. Until now.

He should have known that, of all of them, Rey would be able to locate him with ease. The smoke from the bonfires obscures people’s scents minimally, but by now he’s aware there is something about his scent in particular that draws her to him, the same way hers does to him. She just has far less to lose by indulging the urge to follow.

“Lucky me, it looks like I’m no longer alone.” He nods to the cooler in her hand from his perch atop a large, flat stone at the edge of the water. “Now you’ll have to stay.”

It is possible he was hoping for this.

Rey looks back over her shoulder, toward the flickering bonfire light and echoing noise, then climbs up and sinks down beside him. 

“My God, another outfit? Father, you are fashionable as fuck today.”

He manages to wrangle the smile threatening to spread across his face. Recalling his reasons for changing is helpful. “I thought after running, the sweat on my clothing . . .”

Realization hits her, and she actually shrinks away a bit as she rubs her nose nervously. “Oh, shit. I’m . . .”

She hasn’t changed out of her running clothes, which could be big trouble for him. She’s thrown a hoodie and her leather jacket on, though, and that helps a little, especially with her hood pulled up. She has also clearly sprayed herself with some sort of aerosol scent blocker that’s popular with athletes, though it’s a scent Ben usually associates with Alphas. He has a can of the stuff buried under his dirty clothes in his bag, which he tossed into the bed of his truck after changing. It makes Rey smell familiar in a way she hasn’t before—not because of her own scent, but because with the blockers, she smells like  _ him _ . He begins to wonder how much better it would be if she were covered in his scent instead.

As long as he doesn’t lean too close, he should be fine. 

“Is this okay?” she asks. “Should I go?”

“It’s fine. I barely noticed you approaching.”

“No, it’s just . . . fuck, I’m usually way more careful about this stuff, and— I didn’t even  _ think _ —” Rey huffs a sigh. “You sure?”

He appreciates her concern, even if it’s a bit startling to have her acknowledge the problem so candidly when neither of them has dared to mention it before this. But he doesn’t want her to leave.

“If you’re okay, you should stay.”

For a few seconds she’s stiff and seems to be evaluating whether she is, indeed, okay. Her nostrils twitch and she looks at him askance, half turned away. Her neck is hidden in her hood, but he can tell by the tilt of her head that she is actually exposing it to him, inviting him . . . and she doesn’t even realize. It is one of those rare moments when she  _ feels _ like an Omega to him, and he can’t deny that seeing her like that piques his interest even more, very deep inside a neglected part of himself. Its rarity makes it more potent. Despite himself, even though he wants to stop, Ben takes a long, deep breath until he finds her under the blockers. 

_ Mine. _

He forces himself to focus on the moment. No, she is not his. He does not get to have that. He chokes back his next breath and bites his tongue.

Rey shrugs, and the tension melts from her shoulders. “Right. Well, anyway. I’m glad you said that, because I brought a peace offering.” She holds up a plastic zip baggie. “Ginger biscuits. Homemade.” When he just stares at the bag, she shakes her head. “I swear it’s nothing to do with the birthday thing—I had no idea. I just remember you liked them.”

She made an enormous batch for a bake sale last month, and they were wildly popular. He may have bought several.

“Oh. Thanks, I did.” He accepts the bag and sets it between them on the stone. He can smell the sharp sticky-sweet tang of candied ginger through the plastic. “I tried finding a recipe and making some myself when I ran out, but it turns out I’m a terrible baker.”

“You could have asked me for the recipe.”

“I assumed something that delicious had to be a secret.”

She chuckles. “It is, but I think you must be good at keeping those.” She fiddles with the cooler lid, then digs around in her jacket pocket. “What’s your phone number?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me your number, and I’ll text you the recipe later.” As if she sees his doubt, she holds up a hand. “It’s the least I can do.”

There are plenty of other ways she could give him the recipe. Write it down or print it out, bring it to confession next week or to any other church function. Dictate it to him here and let him type it up on his own phone. Ben isn’t that interested in those other ways. Besides, having her number might come in handy. He has other parishioners’ numbers. Granted, they’re mostly heads of various committees, staff members, ushers and the like, but maybe he’ll need to contact Rey for last-second help with . . . something. The holidays are coming. A busy time.

He rattles it off to her, and she grins as she enters it, pockets her phone, and reaches into her cooler to extract a six pack of some local craft beer. 

“That part of your peace offering, too?” he asks.

“Could be. Though I’ve heard that after thirty people can’t handle their alcohol as well.” She’s tapping the side of a can with her fingernails. “ _ Terrible  _ hangovers. Do you dare?” 

“Good thing I still have four days left to indulge the vices of my twenties.” Piqued by the waggish look on Rey’s face and the way she holds the beers just out of reach when he tries to take one, Ben squints at her. “Are you even old enough to be drinking, Stafford?”

Her eyes go wide as she feigns outage. 

“I’m twenty-three years old, thanks.” She breaks off a can despite his teasing and hands it to him. “Four days. So . . . that means you’re a Halloween baby?”

He makes a distracted hum of confirmation as he pops his can open and gets nailed in the eye by some errant flying beer foam. 

Rey just nods knowingly. “And a Scorpio. Yeah, I can see it. The whole mysterious intensity thing.”

Ben is excruciatingly conscious of her eyes on him again and the way she’s nibbling on her lower lip. She’s flirting with him, and he’s letting her—reciprocating a little, even. He knows that. He hasn’t done so in a long, long time, but it’s easy to do with her. Fun, even. The idea of letting it continue makes his skin tingle with the memory of their faces pressed to each other’s scent glands. 

He needs to shut it down. “Never really followed astrology.”

“Ah, right. Not very Catholic, is it?”

He shrugs. It’s less religious objection, more lack of interest, though it does make him wonder what else Rey thinks it reveals about him. Part of him would like to hear her tell him, slowly lead him through her summation of who and what he is. He thinks of her, thinking of him, putting him together, taking him apart. 

To her, he must seem very walled off. He should be. But for a while now that’s been feeling a bit like a lie. He takes a long swig of beer, swallows slowly, and lets his nails knead his empty palm. 

“Did you do many races back in London?”

“Races?” She looks confused for a moment. “Oh! No, not anything big. Casual stuff like this. Mostly just keep up with it to challenge myself. I was thinking maybe I’d try a half marathon next year—I know I just missed a big one.”

“There’s a good one up in Kawartha Lakes in July. I just did it this year. Great scenery.”

“Excellent distraction from the screaming pain, I bet.”

He chuckles, and it seems like the tension is gone. For a while they talk about local running culture, and she asks him about good trails to check out closer to home, which brings them around to topics of fitness and sports and the fact that she recently found a place to take jiu jitsu. When Ben jokingly comments on her surprising propensity for violence, she scoffs.

“So I guess you’re not coming to the Leafs match next weekend? I saw in the bulletin there were a few tickets left.”

“No. Not really a hockey fan.”

“What!” She looks genuinely appalled. “What kind of Canadian are you?”

“About as much of one as you are,” he says, returning her judgmental wide-eyed stare. “I lived in Washington until I was about nineteen.”

“I had no idea you were a fellow expat. Looks like I'm still bad with accents.” She chugs some beer and pulls open a bag of chips. “Why’d you leave? Did they assign you or something?”

He shakes his head and stares at the lake lapping at pebbles along the shore. “Nah, I came up here when I decided to enter the seminary because I had an uncle living in Montreal. He was already a priest, so it made sense. Ailbe’s is my first assignment.”

“Am I . . . allowed to ask how come? Why you decided to enter the seminary?”

“You are allowed to ask.”

He can imagine what she must be thinking. A life of celibacy is a strange choice for an Alpha. The level of self-denial would have to be inhuman.

“But you don’t have to answer, right? Secret priestly calling stuff. God’s voice thundering from the clouds.”

It isn’t something Ben talks about often—ever. Monsignor Canady knows, his uncle Luke knows, his mother knows. The corrections officers and legal teams know, if they remember him at all. Rey, though . . . she has spent a lot of time over the last six months telling him things about herself, and he has barely offered anything of substance in return. He’s never had to. That was always part of the appeal—he thought it was. He has just realized he wants to change that, and he doesn’t give himself time to question why.

“No, it’s . . .” He chews on his cheek for a couple seconds and runs a thumb along the rim of his beer can. “A longer story than that.”

“I’m not exactly pressed for time. And I know you  _ have _ to listen to me talk when I come to confess, but you still do it. So.” 

She waves her hand at him.

“Right. Well. I had a lot of problems when I was a teenager. Like, as an Alpha. They say it’s how you’re made and the way you’re meant to be, but it never really felt that way, and I couldn’t figure out how to control myself. Like a lot of kids, I guess, but it seemed worse. It was frightening. And my dad was a cop and my mom was in local government, so there was a lot of need to . . . keep stuff locked down.” He looks uneasily at Rey, but she’s listening, her eyes focused softly on the trees. “I really hated them at the time, but looking back I think they mostly didn’t know what was happening. And my mom was an Alpha, but she never had it as bad. It  _ was _ natural for her. She knew exactly how to use that part of herself. So she didn’t understand how it couldn’t be for me, when I started presenting.”

“So, what, you cut out when you were out of school?”

“I wish. I fell in with this . . . gang, I guess. Mostly teenagers, Alphas, who didn’t have good support systems and wanted an outlet. Someone to tell them what to do with all that shit inside them. Guidance. It went higher up, like, actual criminal activity, and the guy at the top knew exactly what he was doing. I was, I don’t know, fourteen, fifteen by then, and I was doing mostly petty crimes. After school. Weekends when I said I was out with friends, and I thought I was. They liked that I had a connection to the police, see.”

Rey has become very still, holding her beer with both hands in her lap. He wonders if he should stop, but she is clearly waiting for more.

“So when I was just about sixteen, I pass on some info I overheard when my parents were talking, about plans to take down some drug ring, or something. I thought it was a rival faction, thought the guy in charge would appreciate the tip. Turns out the drug ring was his, too. The operation winds up fucked, my dad winds up dead.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. The really messed up part is I stayed. Didn’t tell my mom a thing. Less than a year later I ended up getting arrested for something totally unrelated, but I was done anyway. My mom’s connections came in handy. And I was a young male Alpha from a good family with a dead-cop dad, so I got off way too easy and spent a few years in a juvenile corrections facility near Tacoma.”

Three years under heavy, heavy doses of suppressants, and it was the best he had felt in years. Like he was in control of himself again, at least, even though he knew it wasn’t him, it was just drugs. But the guilt was still there, and the shame of never explaining how it had all been his fault. And then Ben found God.

“They had religious services available, and there was always a handful of kids that went, so I figured, ‘what the hell’ and sat through one. And the guy up there was talking about forgiveness, and redemption, and mercy, and, you know, all that stuff that sounds like sentimental bullshit, but . . . it’s not. It took me a while to realize it, but I did. I started writing to my uncle. And when I got out I’d decided what I wanted to do next was enter the seminary.”

Rey nods, then frowns a little. “Because . . . it seemed like a way to make up for it all.”

“That’s part of it, sure.”

Ben isn’t so naive as to deny the complicated, imperfect nature of his motivations. There’s also the suppressants, a sort of lifeline. The Church felt like a safe place to seek control again, because he didn’t know how to make his own decisions without fearing the responsibility of consequence. He didn’t think he was ready to be alone in the world after all that. And he hasn’t been alone. But he still gets lonely. He has been thinking about that a lot lately. What the price of control has been, and how it’s never absolute.

“I had—have—a lot of reasons. It’s a place to find purpose. A calling.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” she says, he can tell she’s skeptical but trying to be polite. He can feel her sympathy, though, and that is real. “I mean, I sort of get some of that. I never had much control growing up either, but I wasn’t supposed to, right? And I fucking hated that, so I started doing everything I could to take it.”

He knows. She has talked about this a lot with him. How much she begrudges the designation she was born into and how she has spent most of her life finding ways to make the system work in her favor, to make herself stronger than it, to make sure she’s not thrown to the bottom. She has told him how much she is terrified her life means nothing and that anything she does will ultimately not matter at all. Constant denial and overcompensation are exhausting.

Suddenly, she looks at him very seriously. “Have you ever thought of not taking suppressants anymore?”

“No.” It’s embarrassing how instant and emphatic his answer is. “It’s mandated for me, anyway—Alphas in the clergy have to. But even if it wasn’t . . . there are things that would be too difficult to resist without help.”

“Hm. I think about it sometimes. I still have certain urges and needs, of course. I can feel them. I see myself acting certain ways or making certain choices and I know why I do, and sometimes it makes me so sick of myself. And other times I just wonder . . . why bother? It would be a choice then, right? To not be afraid? To be vulnerable?”

Ben is beginning to feel warm under the intensity of her eyes on him, even as the wind off the lake makes him shiver.

“I think I could do it,” she adds, looking away at last. “Not for just anyone. But for someone I trusted, who makes me feel safe. If I knew they wouldn’t hurt me. If I knew I could make myself vulnerable to them and they wouldn’t use that power against me.”

His heart speeds up. He considers taking off his jacket but knows why that would be a bad idea.

“You could,” he says. Desperate to center himself, he falls back to something dry, something he knows. “The Church doesn’t condone suppressants anyway, for non-clergy. It interferes with God’s plan for—”

A burst of laughter from Rey cuts him off, and it makes him a little angry, even as the sparkle in her eyes makes him feel quite the opposite. 

“That is hypocritical bullshit. Seriously?”

“It is not. An Alpha expected to live a life of celibacy  _ needs _ suppressants, or it would be a very miserable life.”

“Forgive me, Father,” she says, and goddammit, for a split second it’s like they’re in a confessional, or one of his fantasies, “but your life can still be miserable. Whether or not you’re rutting something has nothing to do with it.” The sound of her voice talking about ruts—the fact that she  _ glances at his crotch _ when she says it—almost sends him into one, he swears. He catches her scent again, puffing out from her hood, ripe and sweet. “And it’s ridiculous to act like  _ I’m  _ spitting on some divine plan by controlling my heats, but you doing the exact same thing because you’re wearing a collar is some ordained act of nobility. Don’t even get me started on the double standard of the Alpha and Omega of it. You just said yourself that if you didn’t have to take them, you would want to anyway.”

“Would you prefer I lie and say I enjoy feeling that way?”

“What way?” Rey’s eyes flash despite the civility of her tone, and he doesn’t know why she bothers to ask, because she knows.

“Vulnerability. Lack of control.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You would be surprised.”

“Maybe. But the difference is, if you were to let yourself go, the only thing you have to fear is yourself. You get to be in charge. You get to pursue. You get to take. That  _ is _ control. If I do, I hardly have control over anything. Not myself. Certainly not the people who want to use my condition against me. I have to be afraid of everything. Because the sort of control  _ you _ have gets used to excuse all sorts of terrible behavior.”

Her eyes are bright and she’s breathing hard. He doesn’t know when she moved closer, but she did. Maybe he did. He locks eyes with her. 

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No.” Rey’s gaze flickers, and she looks puzzled, then shakes her head. “I’m not. I feel quite safe with you, in fact. Because I trust you. And I’ve been vulnerable with you, and you’ve never used that power to hurt me.” She pauses, as if she is not sure she wants to continue. “But I think you’re afraid. Of me. What might happen if I . . .”

She leans closer still and he thinks she’s about to nudge her face up to his neck, and she’s right: it terrifies him because he knows he might not be able to stop himself, and that there will be no incensed driver behind them to interrupt it. She kisses him on the lips instead, closed-mouthed, hands to herself. It would be chaste, except for the fact that he can smell how aroused she is and that his awareness of it has him hard in a second. 

He kisses her back. He can’t keep from doing so any more than he can keep from deepening it. And he  _ does _ , hands at her shoulders to keep her in place as he claims her mouth with a fervor he hasn’t experienced in years. Rey stiffens in surprise, but then she whimpers and melts into him. Her mouth opens to his. Her tongue probes past his lips, presses the roof of his mouth, drags over his teeth, and his tongue probes back. Her hands catch in the front of his jacket and seem stuck there. He paws her hood back to run a hand through her hair, and her scent assaults his senses. Buried instincts scratch their way up and demand his attention. 

_ Take the Omega. Rut her. Knot her. Mark her. She’s yours, yours, yours—but you have to take her first. Right now. Someone else will. _

He ignores it for a few seconds, reminds himself that she’s not in heat and he’s not in rut, and he won’t be in one as long as he is diligent, but that just seems to make it angry. His fingers tighten and twist in her sweat-damp hair until he thinks it must hurt her.

He shouldn’t be doing this at all.

Rey is the one to pull away first, even though she started it. Perhaps she senses that one of them is about to lose control and is determined not to be it. A hand pressed hard against his chest, right over his thundering heartbeat, she smiles tightly at him and bites her lip. “There, see? Nothing to be afraid of.” 

Ben licks his lips and tastes her—the hoppiness of the beer, mostly, but her scent too. On his tongue it’s botanical and mild. He would like to see if she tastes like that everywhere. He would peel her leggings off first and start between her legs. He would drag his tongue over her cunt, her hips, her abdomen, her ribs. He would take his time on her breasts, one at a time, clip at the soft swells with his teeth, suck her nipples until she was writhing and crying out. And then her neck. How he would breathe her in and nothing else would exist but his worship of her.

He is getting very confused. This feels like the beginning of a rut cycle. It can’t be. His skin is crawling and he wants to run. 

He wants to pin her. 

He wants to— 

“Please don’t do that again,” he says. 

The change is instant and almost painful to witness. Her expression falls; her scent wilts. She tugs her hood back up clumsily. Her fingers fumble, then toy with the drawstrings. “Right. I— That was a shit thing to do. I—”

“It’s fine. But. I’m gonna go.”   


“No, don’t. I’ll leave. You were here first. I’ll—” She is openly upset now, nervous and floundering, face bright red and hands trembling as she throws two cans of beer back into her cooler with the half-eaten chips. Jesus, he hasn’t seen her this unsettled before, and _this_ he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like that he’s the reason for it. He can’t even find it funny that she’s still taking pains to leave him with half the alcohol, like it’s a tribute for his time and the fact that she just stuck her tongue in his mouth. “I should head home anyway. Have a good night. Happy bir— I’ll— Um . . . bye. Father.”

She half jumps, half falls off the side of the stone they’ve been sitting on, then speedwalks down the path toward the main event. It is tempting to chase after her.

He stays there alone for another hour, until the sun is fully set and the moon is reflecting off the surface of the water. By then he has finished the other beers and eaten the entire bag of ginger biscuits, and he has a stomachache, but he’s still starving, horny, and irritated. Ransolm was right: he is definitely in for a long shower tonight, though his hair is the least of his concerns. His mood does not improve when he gets to the rectory and throws his laundry into the washing machine. The shirt he wore to the race is missing. He could have sworn he threw it inside his bag with everything else. He never had any particular attachment to it, but the loss really pisses him off. He masturbates furiously in the shower, and that doesn’t help much either.

As he’s laying down to go to sleep, trying to figure out what battery of prayer could possibly set him right tonight, his phone buzzes. He ignores it and is reaching for the rosary he keeps under his pillow—fuck it, he’s going to go down to the chapel—when it buzzes again. He has two texts from an unknown number.

The first simply reads ‘Sorry.’

The second is long. It’s a recipe for ginger biscuits. 

Ben considers replying. He considers erasing them both and in effect erasing Rey’s number. He opts for neither, leaves his phone on the nightstand, and heads to the chapel.


	6. Sounds Like a No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This week's chapter is a shorter one - a little angsty breathing room before the last four.

Rey skips confession for two weeks before she works up the nerve to show her face again. It’s not that she thinks Father Ben is angry with her. He responded to her apology text, albeit nearly a full twenty-four hours after she sent it that night. It wasn’t much. Then again, hers was one word and a recipe, so what was she expecting? Nothing heartfelt, and it wasn’t that. But it  _ was  _ enough to assure she is welcome to return and that he isn’t holding this against her, even though he has every right to.

She wishes she knew what’s gotten into her. She’s never been afraid of being forward. It’s a way to set the terms before someone else can. This is different. She’s not setting the terms at all, though it doesn’t feel much like he is, either. As for where that leaves them—or why there is a  _ them _ at all—Rey has no idea.

It’s been like this for months, though, and it’s getting harder instead of easier. She’s always thought of herself as careful, yet she hasn’t been careful at all lately. She’s maxing out her suppressants because being around Father Ben sometimes makes her feel like she’s about to flip. She almost lost it by the lake. When she got home an hour later her temperature was still up and didn’t return to normal until the morning. Logic would suggest she would do well to not be around him anymore, for her own good if not for his. 

That’s simply not acceptable. Rey likes him. A lot. It’s not just about his scent anymore, or his voice, or the idea that it’s forbidden. When she’s near him, that feeling inside her isn’t sated—it’s needier than ever—but only because there is something very right about being with him, and she wants to do something about that. She’s never experienced that before, not even during a heat.

Two weeks has felt like enough. A good break. About as long as she can endure not seeing him, anyway. When she enters the confessional, she doesn’t take off her coat or scarf. It’s November, so the heat is on, and she feels warmer just looking at him, but she doesn’t want to risk anything unnecessary. Belatedly, she thinks she should have gone behind the screen at least; that’s about as impossible to fathom now as not showing up at all.

“Hey, Father.” 

She smiles like it’s no different than any other time. They’ve done this before, she figures, after that close call in his truck. They can do it again. It’s pretty much the same, even if she can still remember the way it felt to kiss him. 

Or maybe this isn’t like the last time. He’s looking at her as if he can hardly believe she’s sitting there. He must have thought she wasn’t going to return at all, she realizes.

“Hey. Welcome back.”

“Thanks. I—” Rey purses her lips and scratches her calf with her boot. “Hope everything’s okay.”

“It is. It will be. I shouldn’t have given you reason to think—”

“You didn’t.” She sits down and stuffs her hands into her pockets. She didn’t come here to have this conversation, and he doesn’t look like he wants to have it either. “Let’s just . . . can I make my confession now?”

Father Ben looks surprised, then smirks and tilts his head. “I guess that is why you’re here.” 

It’s not the only reason, and he knows it, but they get down to it. After a few minutes it really does feel normal again, and she has a bit more to say because it’s been a while longer than usual. There are things she leaves out, of course. Things he  _ knows _ because he was there—how she flirted with and threw herself at a priest, teased him, kissed him, delighted in his tongue brushing hers, his hands on her body, and the aggressive sharpness of his scent in his mounting arousal. 

All to prove a point. And oh, how that backfired.

Still, she can’t bring herself to be so crassly honest with him. It’s too delicate, even if she suspects he’s waiting for her to bring it up. Yet he gives her no indication that anything has changed, and as they reach the end, Rey feels lighter than she ever has. This will all be fine. Now that she’s nearly fucked it up and knows how horrible it feels to think she might not see him again, she won’t do it a second time. She’ll figure out how to treat him like a friend. Somehow.

She stands to go.

“Wait a minute. Rey?”

She freezes and turns, and she’s surprised to find him on his feet, standing very straight. She’s been so nervous and then so relieved this whole time that it’s only now that she notices she can hardly smell him. Heavy blockers, she guesses, which would have made sense—except it feels ominous. He looks very serious and a little pained.

_ Oh no. _

“What’s up?” she asks.

“I . . . It would be best, going forward, if you sought confession from Father Ransolm or Monsignor Canady.”

Rey raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms over her chest. “Oh.”

“You understand why, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course I do. It’s just—”

“Don’t think I’m trying to blame you for anything. Of the two of us, I’ve done far more wrong by allowing things to become . . . confused between me and you.” 

She can’t help laughing, though it’s joyless. “‘Confused.’ Good word for it. Though I have to say I don’t feel very confused right now. I know exactly what I want.”

“Yeah. Me too. Which is why I can’t do this anymore.”

“Fa—”

“Rey. Don’t argue.” His demeanor is unsettling her. It’s as if he is trying to soften the blow, like he expects her to be overwhelmed by instinct to start begging or crying, but it comes off as forced and unnatural. She can see that he’s hardly in control of himself. “You said you understood. And you clearly do.”

She does not want to get mad, but it’s too late. She already is. The other option is acknowledging a hurt that feels the way she always imagined heartbreak would, and she isn’t ready to admit she could be that far gone.

“So, what, are you banning me from St. Ailbe’s?”

“Hardly. You’ve . . . you’re part of the community.” 

Hearing him say that only stokes her frustration. He knows what this place has started to mean to her, because she’s confided in him, time and again, how good it has been to have a routine and a sense of belonging. It’s maybe the last place she’s ever expected to find it, and she knows she’ll never really be a true part of it all, but St. Ailbe’s has been a bright spot. She realized that the first time she showed up to help with a food drive and people knew who she was. His acknowledgement of that now just feels like he’s throwing it back in her face.

His brow crinkles, but he presses on. “Your absence would be felt, and you’re always welcome to participate in the parish life, but . . . This isn’t about you. It’s about me.”

Oh God, he’s doing the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ talk with her. She can’t fucking believe this. She’s being broken up with, and they were never even together, because he's a priest. The man is unbelievable. 

“You realize I’m not actually a parishioner here, right?” she cuts in, so sharply she hardly recognizes her own voice. “I’m not even Catholic.”

Father Ben is quiet, and he stares hard at the floor as his jaw works. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago. Which is another fucked up thing I’ve done. Let you come in here week after week and pretended I’m not just going through the motions to be alone in a room with you for ten minutes.”

This might have flattered her, in a twisted kind of way, months ago. Weeks, even. Now it’s just offensive. “You were lying to me? This whole time?”

“You were lying to me too, Rey.”

He’s not wrong, but it still hurts so much. Is this hurting him? She hopes so.

“You could have told me. You  _ should  _ have told me when I asked if I could just come to talk. Because that wasn’t about spiritual direction, that was about you, and I think you know it, Ben. You’re right, that is fucked up.”

He doesn’t correct her when she uses his name so informally. His mouth opens and he takes in a breath, stops whatever he was about to say, presses his lips together, and tries again. “I’ve been inexcusably selfish when it comes to you. Which is why it needs to stop.”

“Big of you to take charge of the situation. Very Alpha.” 

He bristles and takes a step toward her, opening his mouth to speak again, but she interrupts before he can.

“Have you confessed it?”

It stops him in his tracks, stripped of all the bluster but still seething.

“What?”

“Have you told someone about this?” she demands. “Have you been confessing to Canady or Ransolm or  _ whoever _ every week and then turning around and doing this again?”

His face darkens. “That’s my business.”

“Sounds like a no.”

“I’m trying to be civil about this. If I thought explaining to you what this feels like would make you understand, I would—but you already feel it too. Don’t you?”

She would love to turn his words back on him and tell him it’s her business. But of course he knows. By now he’s seen it, and heard it, and smelled it on her dozens of times. Like her, he’s run out of the ability to overlook it. So she’s standing here bundled up to her eyeballs, and he’s wearing enough scent blockers to blot out a goddamn stable.

He’s right.

“Thank you, then. For . . . reminding me I’m not alone. Have a good evening, Father.”

Rey isn’t sure how she gets the words out, but she does, and she manages to walk calmly out through the chapel and into the parking lot. She’s been such an idiot. This was always what was going to happen. None of this could have lasted. She feels like she’s lost something, but she doesn’t know what it is because she was never supposed to have it at all. She makes it halfway home before the tears come. 


	7. Come Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on Twitter at thisgarbagepic1 and on Tumblr at thisgarbagepicker. <3

Monsignor Canady draws up beside Ben, scanning the room. “There’s another group of volunteers coming in at five, correct? We still have a lot to get situated for the delivery to the children’s hospital tomorrow morning.” 

Ben eyes the mammoth pile of toys, games, and children’s clothing arrayed across several tables in the parish center, and the equally mammoth stack of boxes along the walls—also filled with toys, games, and children’s clothing. It’s the second day of St. Ailbe’s yearly Christmas toy drive, and so far, it’s running smoothly. 

“Yeah.” He glances down at the tablet on the table beside him. The next and last shift of the night is from five to nine or so, mostly boxing, itemizing, and making a record of what’s meant to go where and when. They’ll return Thursday morning to finish organizing whatever is left and make some final deliveries. It’s hardly the last thing that needs doing before Christmas Eve, but they have almost a week until then, and the volunteers are in good spirits. “Let’s tell this group to hang out ten more minutes or so and then they can head home. I’m surprised no one’s bailed because of the forecast.”

“What, some snow?” Canady gives a skeptical shrug. “It’s not supposed to be that much.”

Ben begs to differ, but he supposes his measure of what constitutes significant snowfall hasn’t quite converted to the Canadian standard and, at this point, never will. To him, a report calling for upwards of a foot, along with squalls and icy conditions, seems like a deterrent to volunteerism. He keeps this opinion to himself. They’ll probably be done by then anyway, and considering the rectory is just across the parking lot, he’s not one of the people who has to worry about digging a car out in the morning.

“Fine. I’m going to go see—” Ben’s phone buzzes in his back pocket, interrupting him midthought. He frowns down at the name that pops up when he checks it. It’s the youth shelter. He excuses himself and slips into an empty office to take the call. “Hello? This is Father Ben Solo.”

“Hi, Father. It's Harter Kalonia, from Candlewick Youth Shelter.”

“Yeah, I saw. Is this about today’s delivery?”

“Actually, yes. We were expecting a few boxes of donations around four today, and it doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. I wanted to call you to make sure there hadn’t been some mixup. We have some new staff, and as I’m sure you know, mistakes get made. But I’d like to have someone waiting if it is still arriving tonight.”

“Oh.” Ben frowns and glances out the window, where heavy, dark-gray clouds have turned purple as the sun sets. He thumbs through the list on the tablet, scanning for the right shelter. “Yes, that was supposed to be today. At four. You’re sure it never arrived?”

This is embarrassing, but Harter doesn’t seem angry, just confused. Ben assures her he’ll get the issue sorted and let her know tomorrow when she can expect the boxes. As soon as he hangs up, he indulges in a growl of irritation and dials a second number.

The delivery to the youth shelter was loaded into the bed of his truck today by two. At three-thirty, Rey was scheduled to show up and drop it all off, then return to help with the last-shift of packing. He left the keys in his office for her to take so that she wouldn’t need to see him if she didn’t want to. 

That’s how things have been between them for the last month. He really did think—or fear, or hope, he can never decide—he had run her off entirely, and that she’d never show her face at St. Ailbe’s again. Instead, she has continued to be a regular presence, especially as holiday activities and preparations begin to surge. (At least that wasn’t a lie: she truly does like being a part of things here.) They exchange hellos and little else. They keep to themselves. She rarely looks him in the eye anymore, which he hates most of all: the disappearance of her boldness with him. All of it is borderline agonizing. Yet so far it seems to be working, and he tells himself to be grateful she is still around at all. Maybe something can be salvaged of this, one day.

Not right now, though. Right now, he’s calling Rey, and he’s trying to control the timbre of his voice when he gets her voicemail and needs to leave a message.

“Rey. It’s Father Ben. I just got a call from Harter Kalonia at Candlewick about the clothing delivery. She says it never arrived. Did you deliver it to the correct location? Call me back when you get this. Please.”

He stares at his screen, sends a text with a similar gist, then has another thought. He walks outside of the parish center and peers out at the parking lot. His truck is sitting where he parked it three hours ago. There’s a stack of boxes in the bed, covered over with a gray tarp. 

“What the hell.”

When he walks across to the rectory and checks his office, the keys to his truck are also where he left them hours ago, right down to the brief note he wrote for Rey with the address and phone number of the shelter in case she didn’t have it on her phone. This is very strange. And annoying. Because apparently she just never bothered to show up at all. It’s unlike her. She’s never bowed out of something without sending notice. And he knows for a fact that she was especially excited about participating in some of the Christmas activities this year. 

So truly, what the hell? Maybe this is about him after all. Maybe she didn’t want to deal with his truck (even though  _ she  _ was the one to volunteer and insist that he didn’t need to do anything about his scent inside it—he hung a blocker card from the rearview mirror anyway). Maybe she’s decided she’s still pissed about what he said to her a month ago and is acting out now. 

Ben doesn’t have time to stew over it. The boxes are loaded, and tonight the weather is supposed to go to shit. He’ll make the delivery himself and deal with Rey afterward. He stops back over in the parish center for his coat and to let Canady know what’s going on and that he expects to be back by six. Yet when he's halfway to the shelter, his anger is fading and he is starting to get worried. While he was busy thinking of reasons this must be something Rey has chosen to do to make some sort of statement, maybe it isn't. It could just be that something is wrong. 

As he pulls up to the shelter, he tries calling her again and is sent straight to voicemail. He hangs up and texts her.

_ Nvm about the delivery, it's handled. Text or call to let me know what’s going on. _

He almost types “ _ to let me know you are ok _ ” but thinks it might send the wrong message, as if ordinary concern could be ‘the wrong message,’ but he has no idea how to act around her right now. Vaguely cold professionalism will have to do. Chances are, he’s getting anxious about nothing. She’ll probably be at the church filling boxes when he returns. It’s entirely possible he misunderstood the plan, even though he has texts from her in yesterday’s group chat confirming that she was still good to make the delivery. 

He rarely gets uneasy like this. It doesn’t feel good to be out of control and know it all comes back to her . . . as usual. He turns his phone on silent and refuses to let himself check it while he’s dealing with Harter and her staff, and he turns down an offer to stick around a while for some coffee and Timbits after everything is unloaded, tempting as that is. When he’s back in the truck, waiting for the heat to kick in, he dares to look at his phone. His heart jumps when he sees he has several texts. 

They’re all from Ransolm, asking if Ben hid the rum again, because they’re trying to make eggnog for the late-shift volunteers, and if they’re actually out can he please pick a bottle or two up on the way back, because whiskey has no place in eggnog, you heathen, thanks, god bless us everyone. Ben is going to pretend he didn’t see it.

There is nothing from Rey. No missed calls, no messages. And no, he’s not going to reply to Ransolm and ask if she’s there. She probably is. He’ll see her car in the lot when he arrives. She bought one in October, anticipating less-than-ideal winter conditions for her motorcycle. It was smart. And it’ll be in the lot.

Her car is not in the lot when he arrives. Ben idles at the edge of the property and thinks. He knows that if he doesn’t figure out what the hell is going on, it’s going to bother him all night. And clearly, Rey has no interest in getting back to him to allay his concerns. If something’s wrong, and he suspects but doesn’t do anything, and something has happened to her, he’ll be . . . he isn’t even sure how to describe the feeling. What he feels for Rey has long been beyond words.

He calls her a third time. As expected, voicemail. He sends one final text, like insurance.

_ I’m driving to yours to check on you. If you don’t want me there, TELL ME. _

The caps are probably a bit much, but it’s too late, he’s hit send. 

Ben turns the truck around and gets back on the road. He hasn’t been to her place since that terrible, wonderful night in August, but he can recall the crossroad at the end of her street. If the GPS can get him there, he’ll be able to figure out the rest. There was a crooked apple tree outside—he remembers because it seemed to be mocking him as he sat there in the cab trying to will his body to return to some equilibrium. As he drives, the first flakes of snow begin to fall, and they aren’t demure little flurries. They’re thick, wet clods that look like paper spitballs as they scatter heavily over his windshield. 

He’s there in ten minutes, and he knows it’s the right place because there’s the tree, and there’s her car, a small black sedan. The lights are on in the front window, though the porchlight is not. He can see a little tabletop tree outlined in the window, wrapped in twinkling multicolored string lights. The snow has already begun to coat the lawn. He shuts the truck off and sits in the cab, looking at his phone, waiting for some sign. 

All he gets is a strange prickle over his skin that makes him feel so warm he thinks the heat must be malfunctioning. It isn’t even on, he remembers, but the air is stifling and it’s hard to breathe. He runs a finger between his throat and the stiff collar of his shirt. His skin is damp. He feels odd. Unsettled, restless, like his legs need to move and they're going to take him somewhere whether he likes it or not.

The irrational anxiety has taken on a force all its own. The faster he gets out and knocks—the faster Rey answers the door, maybe confused, maybe annoyed, and asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, she didn’t come to the church because she’s pissed at him and he can fuck right off to hell—the faster he can go back to St. Ailbe’s, assured that this entire disaster he’s in the middle of has officially created a monster.

+

It has been four years since Rey last experienced a full-blown, unmitigated heat, and she doesn’t remember it ever being this bad. Her body is punishing her with four years of deferred torment condensed into the span of what she knows will be several days of indescribable discomfort. 

She was in the kitchen when it happened.

She was rolling out biscuit dough between two sheets of parchment paper, thinking that she had another hour or so before she needed to buck up and get over to St. Ailbe’s to take Father Ben’s truck on gift-delivery. It was like one of those things that a person plans to do before a breakup (she can’t stop thinking of it that way, and she won’t) and still does even if things have changed. Besides, it wasn’t about her, or him, or any of their bullshit. She never had anyone deliver gifts to her before when she was a kid growing up in a dodgy group home. It was nice to think she could change that for someone else. She leaned over to grab a handful of crystallized ginger, and when she straightened up her middle cramped so badly she nearly passed out. 

It reminded her of how it felt to go into heat before she’d been taking suppressants, but she couldn’t be. She was taking as high a dose as possible for a woman of her size. Maybe a bit more. Definitely a bit more. Her body had adjusted. It was fine. She was just hungry. 

A minute later she was curled up shaking on her couch with a dry mouth, a pounding headache, and sweat soaking through her shirt, still in denial of what was happening despite all the signs. But the wringing in her abdomen worsened, her temperature climbed, and the slick just kept building until she was soaked down there too and it was a moot point to even bother with underwear. She couldn’t think straight. Forget trying to rationalize the fact that she’d just gone into the worst heat of her life,  _ nothing _ felt rational. Her body was empty and it demanded to know why she wasn’t filling it, why it wasn’t full, it wanted to be filled, filled,  _ filled _ with Alpha cock and Alpha cum.

_ Why was she alone? _

No, she needed to make sure she  _ was  _ alone. Safe. Away. She needed to make a nest. She needed to hide and curl up and fix this herself. She could fix it.

She turned down the thermostat and began pulling the cushions off the couch and the armchair and carrying them into her bedroom, stripped down to underwear and a sports bra. When those were sweat-and-slick-drenched in minutes, she considered forgetting clothing altogether. What the fuck was the point? She wasn’t leaving the house. She couldn’t leave the house. Even if she wanted to go to hospital, there wasn’t much they could do for her there. It would be a risk to venture out. What she needed was more nesting materials.

Blankets. Throw pillows. Bath towels, kitchen towels. Helga the plush badger. She even dragged the decorative woven rug halfway across the living room floor before she had a moment of clarity that told her it was ridiculous, and that if she was going to do it she should at least move the coffee table off it first.  _ Ridiculous _ . As if all the rest wasn’t. God, she hated this. She hated herself, too, as she downed a liter of water that seemed to do absolutely nothing for her thirst, then thundered back into her bedroom to empty the drawers and add their contents to the nest as well. 

One of the T-shirts, stuffed into the back of her pajama drawer like a shameful secret, she kept and looked at—dark blue with a wolf insignia and  _ ST. AILBE R.C.  _ emblazoned on the chest—then pressed her face to the well-worn cloth and breathed in until her nose almost stung with the scent. A man’s sweat at the basest layer, but there was wet, mineral-rich earth, too, the almost animal-oily smell of coffee beans, and thick, spicy woodsmoke. It helped ease the tension in her core, and then it teased it, and then it helped again, so she stripped naked and pulled it on, like a nest she could take with her as she worked. It would be soaked in a minute anyway, but she liked the way she smelled on it, mingling with him. It was almost like . . .

_ “Fuck _ . God, come on—”

That was a few hours ago (she thinks—time no longer feels like it exists). She’s finished her nest, inasmuch as a nest can ever be finished. The T-shirt she pilfered from Father Ben is indeed a mess of sweat, and slick, and probably some of the water she sloshed on herself last time she dragged her ass out to the kitchen for a drink and came back with a pitcher that’s not going to last long enough. She has taken some ibuprofen, but that’s a joke. It won’t do anything. It’s like trying to take down a bull elephant with BB pellets. 

That’s funny. She laughs, and then utters a gasping moan as she sinks the dildo deeper into her aching, dripping, traitorous cunt and hopes it’ll make a difference. ‘Her only hope’ indeed (also a joke, a really fucking unfunny one, especially right now). Even funnier is what happened not too long ago, just as she was bringing out the toys reserved only for such desperate situations. 

Father Ben called her. And then he texted her. And then a while after that, he called her again. She was considering looking at it when another text arrived and it hit her. The youth shelter gift delivery. Fuck that. Here was a solution to her problem. She could text him—no, call him. Let him hear what her body was doing to her. She could ask him to help her, just this once, because she knew he would be good to her. She would never tell anyone. She would never bring it up again. He wanted to, right? He’d told her that.

She almost did it. Then she turned her phone off, took the battery out, and threw them both behind the couch. Like, really threw them. She might need a new phone.

Funny, right? Hilarious.

What a goddamn day. Night. It’s dark now, because she’s been in here for an eternity, sprawled out in her bedroom, sometimes on the bed, sometimes on the meticulous, spiral-shaped nest she’s turned half her floor into, working her way through the relief drawer and finding very little relief for the way her core is shuddering and her cunt is throbbing. When she has managed to give herself an orgasm, like she just has, it’s been disappointing, because even her favorite toys can only replicate so much—not the sensation of being with another person, not the manic haze of being lost in their scent, not the soft moments of bonding when the climax has passed—and the lull afterward only lasts a few minutes. It’s less afterglow than calm before the shitstorm. Enough time to hydrate and get mopey and consider crying. She tosses the dildo aside and hopes it doesn’t land too far away.

It’s only been a few hours. A few hours of this, and she feels like she’s on the last leg of a marathon, but it’s just started. No wonder there are all those urban legends about Omegas dying when their heats go unattended to. They don’t die; they just wish they were dead.

God, she’s hot. This sucks. It feels like the sort of thing that would drive a person to prayer.  _ God, please just let this stop _ . She can’t make it stop, but if there’s any power that could, she guesses it would have to be god tier. Or just a really thorough rutting. That would be great too. Getting knotted would be a bonus, but at this point she’s not picky. Amen.

She hears something banging and thinks for a second that she didn’t put one of her dresser drawers back in right and it’s just fallen out. But it’s rhythmic, and it happens again a few seconds later, and then someone rings the doorbell. Propped on her elbows, Rey struggles to sit up as the doorbell rings some more, with greater insistence.

“Who . . .”

“Rey?”

Her stomach flips and her lungs freeze, but her body is on fire again.

“Oh God.” 

She’s halfway to her feet before she stops herself. Father Ben is outside her front door, calling her name loud enough that she can hear him from her bedroom. For some reason. While she is in the most intense and unforgiving heat of her life. She might be wrong, but this is the first time her prayers have been answered with such unquestionable clarity.

So why is she just standing here? She makes her way out of her bedroom, forcing herself not to run.

“Rey, are you home? It’s—” There’s a long pause, and she wonders if he’s fled. Unlikely. With the way she’s been tearing through the house, he can probably tell what’s up even from outside. He’ll smell her. The thought sends a new flood of warm slick between her legs. She frantically wipes it away with her hand as a stray drip trickles along her thigh. “It’s Ben. Father Ben. We— You didn’t show at the church and you haven’t answered any of my calls, so I wanted to make sure everything is all right.”

He sounds so sincere. Her feet have taken her all the way through the living room and right up to the door, and his scent is there too, sneaking underneath it. It’s much fresher than the remnants on the shirt she’s wearing. 

Every urge and instinct in her body is screaming at her to rip the door open and pounce. There’s a quieter voice too, where her mind is still struggling through the fog. It’s hard to think clearly, but she  _ can _ , if she tries. That part of her realizes that if she opens the door, yes, she’ll have her relief—not only that, she’ll have something she has wanted for months—but at some cost that will weigh far more on him than on her. 

She isn’t sure it’s fair. It really isn’t. Part of her has always known that. But now . . .

“Yeah, Father. I’m . . . home.”

Another pause as something presses on the door from the other side until it creaks. She thinks he must be leaning on it. “Are you okay? You . . . you didn’t show up for the delivery today.”

“Yeah. No, I—” She clenches her thighs together as she feels the wringing begin to return with the little waves of nausea. “It’s—”

“Are you in heat?”

She draws in a sharp breath. He is right up against the door, and his voice coming through it is lower, almost gravelly. Any other day she could see herself coming from the sound of it alone. Now, it just makes her ache even more, and her face is hot to the touch as she thumbs away some sweat that’s been beading at her chin.

“Yes. I don’t know what— I’m fine, I’m . . .You should . . . you should go now. Please, Ben.”

He’s quiet, but she can’t hear footsteps retreating. The door creaks even more, and his voice does that thing again when he says, “I know. I should.”

She doesn’t say anything, just chews her lip and wishes her mouth wasn’t so dry.

“Rey, do you really want me to go?”

“No.”

“Because . . . fuck, you smell so . . . I can’t— I would really like to come inside. Right now. It’s— I think I’m—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but she can guess. She’s hit with the feeling she has had a few times with him, the really exhilarating one when she realizes that she has something he wants, that an Alpha desires her, but it’s fully in her power to deny him because he can’t act on it. She enjoyed it every time, maybe not consciously, but it was a thrill she couldn’t help indulging. It’s not something she wants right now. It’s not thrilling at all; it’s torturous. She wants Ben to come inside. 

Rey darts forward and opens the door. He barrels through so immediately that she barely has time to move out of his way or process why she’s moving out of his way at all instead of letting him grab her ( _ why isn’t he grabbing her? _ ). He halts just inside, and she slams the door shut and turns to look at him. 

There are fat, heavy snowflakes in his hair, and his cheeks are flushed with cold and arousal. He’s wearing a scarf and a long coat, and those are spattered with snow too. He’s breathing very quickly. He looks like he’s in a rut. He smells like it, too. His eyes are bright and boring into her. There’s fire there. It tells her to keep away; it tells her to come closer. And Rey isn’t sure what to do, why he’s just standing there not moving, but she doesn’t think she can hold it together much longer. The fire has already been having its way with her for hours.

+

  
“That belongs to me.”

Rey looks at him in confusion. “What?”

Ben thinks he means the shirt she’s wearing, because it does belong to him, but he’s also positive he means  _ her _ . She belongs to him. She’s about to. Because Jesus Christ, she’s standing there right in front of him, smelling like sex, like sweat and heat and sweetness, wearing  _ his shirt _ . Only his shirt. The hem hits just below her ass, which he knows because he got an eyeful as she shut the door, and he almost pushed her up against it. He got an eyeful of how much slick is shining on her thighs, too, and on her hands. It smells intoxicating. He wants to suck it off her fingers and lick it from every crease in her palms. He wants to cover his cock in it right at the source.

“That shirt. You took it.”

“Yes.” 

“From me.”

She looks around, mouth open, and pulls her hands through her hair, which is already a gloriously attractive mess. “Yes, so what?” 

She draws a shaky breath and her face crumples, and as she shuffles where she stands and tugs at her hair he can see how much discomfort she’s in. She’s tight as a coil. He tastes it in the air around her, and his cock strains against his pants. Ben doesn’t know why this is happening. He’s been taking so many suppressants he’s shocked certain parts of his body are still functioning that way at all. He can’t be in a rut. Not like this, not this  _ strong _ . But he is.

And God,  _ God,  _ he thought she was irresistible before. He had no goddamn idea. He’s never gotten an erection faster in his life than he did standing outside her door when that new scent hit his nose—the way Rey smells in heat. He’s never wanted to take someone this much. He has never wanted so badly to fuck. He's not even really sure what the room around them looks like. He just sees her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she spits out when he says nothing. “Ben, do you want to do this or not? Because I do, I could  _ really  _ fucking do with it right now, but you’re not—“

“Take it off.” 

He’s tearing off his scarf and unbuttoning his coat, fingers fumbling with the top buttons as he considers just tearing them off too. He gets it open, hurls it away, and hears it land somewhere on the floor behind him. He looks at Rey. She’s standing there watching him with huge, hungry eyes. At this particular moment, they’re trained on his crotch, because now there’s nothing to hide the way his erection tents his pants.

“Take it off,” he repeats, pawing at the buckle of his belt. There’s a hint of a growl in his throat, and he knows where that comes from, and for the first time in a long time he doesn’t care. It hardly unnerves him at all. He locks eyes with her. “Rey, take it—”

Rey looks back at him, her eyes hot and hard as burning coals, and pulls the shirt off over her head in a single fluid motion. She throws it at his feet, as if all he wanted was to reclaim it. He could not give less of a shit about the thing. She’s an arm’s length away, completely naked. For him. 

Her skin is streaked with sweat, her hair tousled about her face and shoulders, her chin high, her hands trembling and clenched into fists at her sides. A bright flush travels from her hairline to her small, perfect breasts. There’s a thin trickle of slick wending slowly down her right thigh, and she’s standing like she wants him to see it and smell it, daring him to deny her now. Feverish heat rolls off her. It soaks into his shirt and pants as he stares at her and swallows. 

She looks like hell. She’s more magnificent than he’s let himself imagine.

“Good girl.”

The instant he says it he’s horrified, because it’s not what he wanted to say at all, but Rey digests it for a moment, then moves forward.

“Now you,” she says, almost chokes it out, and she’s on him. As if she’s only just noticed he’s wearing his clerics when she gets his shirt halfway unbuttoned, she makes an incredulous noise and pulls at the white clerical collar still fastened at his neck. “Fucking hell, I can’t believe you wore the collar, why would you—”

“I wasn’t planning on this.” 

Rey laughs shakily at that and tugs at the collar a few times until he hears it snap at the back of his neck, possibly because she just broke it. He doesn’t care. He keeps finding his face drifting toward her neck anyway, where her hair is clumping with dried sweat and wafts her scent toward him whenever she moves. He decides to be more useful and give her a hand when she gets to his pants, because the faster he’s undressed, the faster this can really start to happen. He doesn’t trust himself not to experience an inhuman surge of self-control and flee into the night. 

But Rey starts kissing him, rubbing her face on his neck, licking and nibbling him there, touching him everywhere else, and he knows what this is. They’ve both wanted this for a long time. They just didn’t have an excuse until tonight. 

Only when he’s naked does it hit him that they’re still standing by the front door. There are small puddles of chilled water underfoot from the snow melting off his boots and coat, and an icy draft keeps shooting in beneath the door to bite at his toes and ankles.

“It’s really fucking cold in here,” he murmurs against her throat. He breathes deep and forgets how to speak for a moment.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been a human furnace the last few hours, so—oh!”

Ben scoops her up, one arm looped across her back, the other beneath her ass, and her legs immediately wrap around his waist as her arms drape over his shoulders. The moment her body is flush with his she makes a long, desperate sound and rubs herself against his abdomen, hot and wet, trailing slick, trying to wriggle herself lower toward where his cock keeps bobbing, like she can’t wait another second to be full of him. 

_ Of course she can’t.  _

“Ben, please . . .” 

He knows. He can’t either. Another insistent jostle of her hips against him, and he doesn’t want to throw her down on the floor and do it like that, but if she keeps moving he’s not going to be able to hold out another minute. He kisses her hard on the mouth to try to put that need and energy somewhere while he relocates. Ben doesn’t ask where to go, because he can smell where she must have spent most of her heat so far, and he wants to be as immersed in that as possible. He wants to feel like he’s swimming in it. 

It’s her bedroom. Good. There’s a bed. There’s an array of blankets whorled over the floor near the foot of it. There’s— 

“Fuck!”

His foot lands on something rubbery and pliant, that rolls a little when he puts his weight down on it, and he stumbles and nearly drops Rey. She jolts and clings tighter, one foot slipping down and digging into his ass.

“What!”

“I just—” He looks down and sees what it is. A dildo. A huge fucking dildo, curved and knotted, definitely used, just laying in the middle of the floor. Despite it all, he huffs a laugh. “Nothing. Um.”

He keeps going and hears her mutter “ _ Oh my God _ ” when she catches sight of what almost wreaked havoc on the moment, and he’s already forgotten it when they reach the bed. He releases her and she tumbles back onto it, and a second later he’s there with her, pinning her, kissing her, nuzzling her throat and neck, mingling her scent with his own as she slides against him to move further up the bed.

“Is it okay in here?” he asks, almost an afterthought, when her teeth clip his earlobe.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s your . . . you’ve been nesting.”

“It’s fine.” 

“Good.” 

He can’t wait any longer. He’s drunk on her. He pushes himself up a bit and rolls her over onto her belly. She goes without resistance, even makes a little sound of pleasure, but he can tell she’s surprised. She’s still surprised when he straddles her and grabs her hips to pull them roughly upward until her ass is in the air, clutches her thighs and spreads them. He leans over the slope of her back to bury his face at the back of her neck as he presses his cock between her legs, right up against the soaked skin of her cunt, and rocks back and forth a few times. Rey whines and wriggles against him, barely able to move any other part of her body, spreading her slick over his length, pushing into him, and she’s ready, so ready. 

He takes himself in hand and starts to line himself up, unable to resist rubbing his thumb along her folds a few times, circling the sweet dip of her entrance with it, a soft touch before he ruts her hard.

“Ben . . .” She turns her head enough to look at him out the corner of her eye, her cheek pressed into the mattress. She has a wild look about her, but there’s something else. “Ben, wait. Can you—”

Even now she’s practically insisting he push inside her, the way she keeps rubbing against the head of his cock. Ben swallows and forces himself to wait. “What? Can I what?”

“Not— I want to face you, when we— Not like this.”

He tears his eyes from her face and looks down at himself, and at her—the way she’s dripping and already parting around him, the way his cock is angry purple and sheened with her and leaking precum onto her skin and the tangled bedspread. It’s beautifully obscene. 

Which, he realizes, is why he is trying to take her like this. This is obscene. What he’s doing, what all this temptation has led to, what he’s making  _ her  _ party to, is . . . it’s . . . shameful. Doing it like this won’t change that, but it’s easier. He doesn’t need to see her, or be seen by her. It’s a way to hide in the sheer sinful pleasure of it for however long that lasts.

Her back is rising and falling rapidly against his chest. “Ben?”

He pulls away only enough for her to roll over onto her back and draw him down until he’s cradled between her thighs, and then he enters her with a swift thrust of his hips and a shuddering groan. He’s too frantic to be gentle with her. And God, it’s satisfaction for an instant and then he needs more—more of that heady wash of her scent, and her slickness swallowing him up, and the way she swore and sobbed with relief when he penetrated her at last. She’s so perfect like this, gloving him, taking all of him, made for him. Her hands are digging hard into his biceps, and then she heaves a throaty sigh and winds them in his hair and pulls his face down to hers. When she starts rubbing her thumbs in long, slow arcs over his scent glands as she kisses him, he feels like he’s floating away. Rey is the only thing keeping him earthbound.

He was being an idiot. This is it. This is what he needed and wanted. To see her as he ruts her. Her eyelids flutter. Her white teeth flash as she presses them against her plump bottom lip. The tight pink buds of her nipples are shiny with his saliva. The lines of her neck are long and supple when she tips her head back and invites him to tuck his face there. She squeezes her thighs against his hips, shifts her legs higher, coaxes him to take her deeper and faster. This is exactly what she needed too.

And Ben is euphoric, almost frenzied, as Rey sighs and moans beneath him and her bed squeaks and rocks beneath them both. He isn’t thinking much at all anymore. All he knows is the feel of her, and the smell of her, and the sound of her barely coherent pleas for more, more, more. As he drives himself into her he brings his mouth to the slender slope of taut muscle between her neck and shoulder, right near her scent gland, and he closes his teeth around it and bites down. He doesn’t break the skin. 

He wants to. So much. Mark her as his. He should. She is. 

Only tonight.

He lets up and licks her there to sate himself, one hot stripe over her gland, then another, and when he feels her stiffen beneath him he sucks her skin between his lips, increasing the pressure a little more each time. She cries out and arches into him from the stimulation, and her hand flies down to where they are joined. He’s drowning in her, and she comes and her cunt seizes around him in sharp, insistent pulses. Her breath is still coming in short gasps. He wants so badly to follow her.

“Rey.” 

Her eyes fly open, and she looks up at him as he tries to rein in the urgency of his thrusts. “ _ Yes.” _

“You don't even know wh—”

“You want to knot me?”

His breath keeps catching in his chest. He forgot what this was like. The wait. Of course she knows. She’s felt the slow increase of pressure from his knot as he’s fucked her. He dips his face against her chest, and he thinks he manages ‘ _ Yes,’  _ but it just as well may be a groan of need.

Rey holds him tighter. “I want you to, Alpha. Knot me.” 

His body gives an involuntary shudder of animal pleasure at that word, in her voice, the way the syllables practically rattle out of her, like her very bones are quaking for what he alone will give her. He doesn’t argue or pursue it further. Ben lets go, and his knot expands as he spills into her, locking them together. It’s been so long since he’s experienced that feeling, he almost collapses onto her in gratitude. 

Not a great way to show gratitude. He gently settles his weight over her instead while he catches his breath. Rey reaches up and runs the backs of her fingers over his cheek as her other hand strays down his side. She’s smiling at him, tender, sated, and happy. He forgot what it was like not to be self-conscious. Maybe he should be ashamed of what has just happened, but he isn’t. Not when she’s looking at him like that.

“I’m gonna go numb like this. You’re heavy,” she says after a short while, still smiling. Her voice is a little hoarse and she’s pink-cheeked, but she’s the most radiant thing he’s ever seen. “How long do you usually last? Your . . . your knot.”

“Um.” He needs a moment to remember. Who knows if it’s even the same for him now. “About thirty minutes, usually. It was, anyway.”

“We’ll see, I guess.” Rey lifts an eyebrow and nudges a leg against his. “Roll us?” He does, carefully, because why would he deny her anything right now, and she relaxes on top of him with her head pillowed at the crook of his neck. “This is my favorite part.”

He thinks it might be his too.


	8. Act of God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you (as always) for reading! We're heading into the final chapters! :O
> 
> You can find me on Twitter at thisgarbagepic1, and on Tumblr at thisgarbagepicker.

This should not change the way Rey thinks of him. He should still be Father Ben, but she hasn’t thought of him like that in months, not really—and she’s not about to get back to it when she’s lying on top of him, skin to skin, with his knot tight inside her and his scent all over her body. She wonders if he’s trying to make that distinction too. She could ask, but she’s too content. The needy fire inside her is temporarily a gentle glow. While she knows she has a few days of this yet and no guarantee he’ll stay to help her through it, it is easy not to think about right now.

She opens her eyes and looks at Ben in the dim lamplight. He’s staring at the ceiling, and his eyelids are heavy, but he appears more at ease than she’s ever seen him. Every muscle in his body beneath hers feels relaxed, even when he lifts his head abruptly and nuzzles her ear. His arms wrap tighter around her.

“Still cold?” she asks.

He chuckles, and his breath and the vibration of the sound tickles her jaw. “No. Although . . .”

She follows his gaze to the window. It’s too dark to see much of anything out there, but she can easily make out the thick fall of snow. If she listens hard enough she can actually hear it hitting the roof and window panes. It’s bad already and getting worse. She remembers the weather reports earlier. “Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“When you need to . . .”  _ When you need to go _ , she wants to say, but she doesn’t want to acknowledge it either. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

She raises a dubious eyebrow. “You’re not worried?”

“No.” His mouth tightens a little, but then he takes a deeper breath and brushes her lips with his when he exhales. “Not right now.”

As he starts to turn away to look out again, she catches him and deepens the kiss, because she’s waited for this and thought about it enough, and now he’s right here and he isn’t going anywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs when she slows and begins to pepper lazy kisses over his collarbones. 

It’s sick that he should be this beautiful and so off-limits. Every time she tries to get a look at him there’s just so  _ much _ , and it’s almost easier this way, a touch at a time. Right now, she is stuck on the pale, pretty column of his throat, where she presses another lingering kiss, then pulls back to look him in the eye. 

“You had better not mean for any of this.” She tries to sound like she’s teasing, but it wouldn't shock her if he does.

“For lying to you. I violated your trust when you told me things in confidence and let you think my—that my motivations were . . . proper. I should have apologized, the last time you came to confess.”

“I know. I’m sorry too. For the same.” 

His mouth squirms as he works his jaw. “You forgive me?”

She thinks he must be asking about more than just what has been exchanged between them in the confessional for the last eight months. He’s looking at her warily. 

“Yes, Ben.”

She means it; she’d ask if he’s forgiven her, but she already knows he has. His expression softens and he draws his fingers through her hair. “What happened today? To you, earlier. I thought . . .”

“That I was on suppressants? Yeah. I did too. I was. I  _ am _ .” It’s still a shock, now that she’s sated for the time being and can really think about it. “I was just baking, right? Biscuits, to bring to the shelter when I made the drop-off.”

“They probably couldn’t have taken them,” he interrupts with a smirk. 

She narrows her eyes. “Well then I guess you lot at the church would have benefitted when I showed up with five dozen ginger biscuits, hm?” Ben chuffs and looks like he’s about to say something smart, so she dips forward and nips his lip. “Anyway. It just . . . started. It’s been such a long time since I had one like this, I was terrified and couldn’t even process that it was happening.”

“Breakthrough.”

“Yeah, I figured. Too late. Thought I was too smart for it,” she says, her tone turning derisive. “I was being so careful, you know? With how much I was taking. I thought I was. That I knew how far I could push it past the limit, because  _ I _ could handle it.”

In retrospect, she’s sure that’s exactly what every person who’s ever experienced a breakthrough heat or rut has told themselves. It won’t happen to them. Yes, they’re taking too much, but it’s not  _ too _ too much, and they’re the exception.

“You seem to do that with a lot of things,” Ben opines. She raises her eyebrows at him, but he’s smiling fondly. “I made the same mistake.”

“We have that effect on one another.” 

Ben looks thoughtful as he kneads gently at her lower back. He keeps stroking her, long passes of his palms and casual brushes of the scent glands at his wrists over her skin. If they weren’t talking it would have sent her right off to sleep by now. It might be nice; sleep does not come easy during a heat, and it doesn’t last long. Even the constant pressure of him inside her is soothing. She can actually feel his pulse down there, and it’s weird and wonderful and intimate. But she likes this more, just talking.

“Has it ever happened to you with someone else?” he asks. “Like this?”

Is he jealous? She doesn’t think so. Something else is motivating his question.

“No. I mean, I’ve been on suppressants since I was sixteen, on and off—that’s almost eight years, and I’ve been with other people, but . . . Honestly, I’ve never had to take more than the minimal dose before I met you.” 

“Me neither.”

“And then it didn’t even  _ work _ , so.” She rolls her eyes, then looks at him askance. “I know it’s late to ask, but . . . did you want this?”

“Want it?”

“Yes. This. Me.”

“You . . .” Ben sniffs and swallows, looks away a moment toward the window, and his fingers splay between her shoulder blades. “You, yes. I wanted— want you. The rut, not as much.”

And now she’s just curious, so she has to ask, because they’ve never been able to talk about this stuff before. “When was the last time for you?”

“When did I last rut like this?”

She nods. 

“After I finished with the corrections facility. I spent a few months getting things settled. Told myself I was still discerning. But I wasn’t using suppressants or blockers or any of that, and it had been years since I hadn’t had anything inhibiting me . . . I kind of spiralled. It felt good most of the time, in the moment, but I don’t think I enjoyed it very much. I never felt like myself. I was happy when I got accepted at the seminary up in Quebec and found out one of the first things you do is start a low dose.”

“That’s sort of fucked up.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He frowns a little. “They don’t . . . stop you from being interested  _ at all _ , but they stop it from becoming uncontrollable.”

She gets that. It’s not quite the same for an Omega, but she understands the way it feels to have her natural cycles deadened to the point that it’s easier to live with herself.

“Maybe it’s time for the pope or whoever to reevaluate that theory,” she quips.

“I think we just did.”

“Hmm.” 

Rey is glad he isn’t taking this so seriously. She keeps thinking he’s about to get caught up in his head about what this could mean for him—and it would be his right. He probably will, at some point. She should know to expect it. But right now he seems happy and unbothered, so she gives in to impulse and brushes her nose against the scent gland at the right side of his neck. 

“Speaking of, what was this all about?” 

She bites him there lightly, applying pressure until he quivers underneath her and hisses through his teeth. She can’t tell whether it’s pain or pleasure or both, but his scent surges, and even though she’s just come she feels a fresh rush of slick anyway. If she could only smell one thing for the rest of her life, she’d want it to be him, just like this. Rey lets up and rubs him there with her the pad of her thumb as he lets out a long sigh. 

It’s hard to sound flirty or seductive right now, but she’s smirking at him anyway and trying her damndest. “Do you want to mark me already?”

Ben’s hands still at the small of her back. “I was about to.”

“So why’d you stop?”

“I had this thought that it could be a bad idea.”

“I’d let you. I like how it feels. It takes the sex to a whole other level.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

His face is impassive, and she racks her brain for an answer.

“If you’re worried people would see, it’s the beginning of winter. I’d make sure it was covered up anyway, ‘til it faded.” She rubs her nose, then shrugs. “And your scent would be gone after a day or two. By the time I’m anywhere near the church again it won’t matter.”

“I’m not worried about that. It’s— with the way I react to you. Have been, since the spring. And the way you’ve been reacting to me. If I marked you, and you—”

“What? Claimed you? I wouldn’t just do that, Ben. I know you’re . . . claimed.”

“No, not that.  _ Copula absolutus.” _

_ The fuck?  _

Rey quirks an eyebrow. “Er,  _ alohamora? _ ”

“What?” Now he looks confused too.

“Sorry, I just thought you were trying to engage in some impromptu Hogwarts roleplay. What the hell did you say? Copulus . . .?”

“ _ Copula absolutus _ . It’s a Church doctrine.” Oh, Jesus, where on Earth is he going with this? “Or an exception to a doctrine. Sometimes, when an Alpha marks an Omega, the mark . . . changes. Shines.”

“A perfect bond, you mean? That’s what it sounds like you’re describing.”

“Yeah, that. True mates, chemical alignment, whatever.” He frowns a little, like she’s surprised him. “You know much about it?”

“A bit. But that’s really unusual, isn’t it?” 

She’s not expecting an answer, but Ben nods anyway. It’s a popular device in smutty novels and romance flicks; in real life, it borders on myth, though cases have been documented and studied extensively. Of course the bloody Church has something to say about it. 

She huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Actually, I had a friend in university who was researching it as part of her biology degree. I’ve seen photos of it. Online. Videos, too. The perfect-bond marks, I mean, side-by-side comparisons with regular mark scars. Time-lapse stuff.”

“I have too.” 

Rey can practically hear Rose explaining it in that very direct, matter-of-fact way she has of discussing everything from national average ranges of Alpha pheromonal diffusion to why  _ Voyager _ was far superior to  _ The Next Generation _ . An ordinary bonding mark scars and fades with time, and renewing it is a perfectly ordinary part of any bonded pair’s sex life. But in the case of a chemically perfect match, if the mark is “true,” the skin around it glows warmly for hours after, like someone’s shining a flashlight through it. The wound heals within hours and leaves behind a pale, ring-shaped scar that doesn’t fade. Real romantics would say it’s soul-deep, not just biological—Rey has a strong suspicion that, despite claims to the contrary, Rose is one of the romantics. 

“They’re beautiful. Like the corona around a full moon,” she murmurs, then gives another sleepy chuckle as she continues reminiscing. “There was this ridiculous trend a few years ago. Teenagers and college kids getting matching shine-scars tattooed in white ink with their partners or fuck-friends.”

Ben snorts. “How ironic of them.”

“Some were pretty convincing.” 

“A tattoo on your scent gland? Sounds like more pain than the joke is worth.”

She realizes she’s been tracing circles over the side of his neck with her index finger and, embarrassed, weaves her fingers into the fine hairs at his nape instead.

“Well, getting marked is painful too, isn’t it?”

He shrugs, and it makes his chest twitch beneath her in a delightful sort of way. “That’s not a joke, though. It’s a good pain.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“It means something. It’s a way to share the deepest truth with someone you . . .” Ben huffs again, perhaps aware that he’s going off on a tangent, and loosens his arms around her only to push her hair back from her face. “You’re distracting me.”

She lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that new?”

“Look. There’s an exception, for Alphas who’re in the clergy. Through age thirty. They’re . . .  _ allowed _ , in some cases, to take a mate, a partner. But only if it’s proved the other person is their true mate.”

Rey is still flummoxed, but she nods. “Okay . . .”

“Like you said, it’s unusual. But there’s something  _ here  _ that’s unusual. Between me and you. And I had this stupid thought, that if I marked you and the mark was  _ true _ , then . . . I don’t know what to do with that. With knowing that. Or with the process of proving it and the bureaucracy and the judgment, because there’s always judgment, even if it’s allowed.”

She bets there is. It would be a clear indication that he’d broken his vows and a permanent smirch on his reputation. But he’s getting ahead of himself.

“Ben that’s . . . really flattering, and . . . I’ve wondered about it too, because this does feel different. For me, anyway, I haven’t felt this way with . . . with anyone. But you don’t have to make a decision about anything just because you’ve rutted me once. I’m certainly not.”

“I’ve rutted you once—for now. I don’t have any plans to leave it at that.”

Despite herself, Rey blushes, then laughs. “I’ve been hoping you’d feel that way. But if this is all it is, however many times, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

She almost says it’s between him and God, but she hardly has to tell him that, and she doesn’t want him to think she’s making fun of him.

“I know.” He scrubs a hand over his face, covering his eyes, and peers at her from beneath it. “The bullshit part is that I don’t want this to be all it is.”

“It’s not bullshit. I don’t either.”

He nods, looks away, and frowns. “Right. Well. I’m not going anywhere until at least tomorrow. So let’s . . . try to make the most of this.”

She has every intention of doing just that. Having an Alpha on hand, in a rut, who she is desperately attracted to even when she’s not in the throes of a merciless biological imperative, who she thinks she might be a little bit in love with, to get her through at least part of the worst heat of her life? Yeah, she’s going to make the most of that situation. 

Rey eyes the window again, where the snow is coming down even harder. “Should you call the parish? I assume you were supposed to be back by now.”

“I will. But my phone was in my coat pocket. Which is currently somewhere on your living room floor, so it’ll need to wait a little longer.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Very.”

“What should we do until then?”

Ben considers her for a moment, then draws his fingers up and along the sides of her neck, caressing her glands until she’s tingling everywhere and feels like her bones have gone to mush. Her head tips back, her eyes flutter shut, her mouth goes slack, and only then does he weave his fingers into her hair and start to kiss her tenderly in a slow, hot path up her throat, to her chin, to her waiting lips.

  
  


“Rey.” 

“Hmh?” Rey yawns and cracks an eye open. 

Ben is nuzzling her face and neck. He’s rubbing her back. There’s a blanket over her—over them both, because she’s still lying on top of him, and he must have covered them at some point. She remembers making out with him awhile, and that it soon became drowsy, lazy touches, and then, she guesses, she dozed off. Maybe he did too.

She considers lying here and pretending to be asleep. He might keep talking to her in that low syrupy voice if she does.

“I’m . . . well. Done.” He nudges his hips upward against hers, and something jostles between her thighs. Her brain catches up a moment later and she realizes it’s his cock, softening and slipping out of her. She couldn’t have been asleep that long, then, unless he knotted her for far more time than he expected. “Can you climb off me for a second?”

“Yep. Yeah.” 

She pushes herself up with uncooperative limbs and slides off to the side of him, then flops onto her back. It’s weird how empty she feels. Not just where he spent the last however-long-it-was, but sort of in her chest, too. Her heat is still in one of its nadirs, but now that Ben’s out, soon enough her body will get wise and she’ll be needing more from him. At least she can sort of look forward to it now. He must be.

He doesn’t lie down beside her, like she expects. Instead he’s sitting with his knees bent, and his thighs are gorgeous, and his shoulders look great, and he’s eyeing her up. His gaze catches between her legs, and she realizes she’s lying there with them all akimbo. A slow, greedy smirk curves the right side of his mouth as he makes a low “hmm” sound in the back of his throat and leans closer, one hand reaching toward her thighs.

“What are y—” 

Her question breaks off into a gasp when he swipes two fingers along her labia, where she’s still insanely sensitive and probably will be until this whole heat thing ends, and pushes them a little way inside her.

“Ben!” 

She doesn’t want him to stop. Not at all. It feels wonderful, even the suggestion of his fingers entering her. But she’s not sure what the hell he’s doing, because he takes them out and does it again at a slightly different angle, then rests his hand on her mound and does it with his thumb, and his eyes keep moving over her like he’s looking for something in particular.

“Hm?”

“What are you—  _ Holy shit.”  _

This time she bucks a little and tries to take him deeper, but he stops and wipes his hand over his thigh. When he looks her in the face he seems almost embarrassed. “You were— There was cum. From me. Leaking out of you. I thought I should . . .”

“Make sure it stays where it belongs?”

“Sure.” 

“Guess thirty minutes wasn't quite enough.”

“It was more like forty-five . . .”

Rey chuckles and stretches one leg out. “And yet my cup runneth over?”

Ben’s eyes go wide and he chokes back a laugh as he does a double take. “Did you just quote a Psalm to me?”

“See? You’ve made me more holy after all.”

“I shouldn’t be laughing at that,” he says, even as he does exactly that. She’s never noticed before that he has dimples. Rey grins wickedly as he tries to school his face.“Neither should you. It’s not . . .”

Still smirking, she sits up, takes his hand, and brings it right to her mouth. He doesn’t resist as she drags her tongue over his fingers to lick away whatever sticky traces remain of cum and slick. She tastes so good mixed together with him—like their scents commingling but sharper and thicker—that she gives a moan of satisfaction around his thumb and bites down before she catches the way he’s staring at her. His fingers tighten under her chin. Rey blushes, then drops his hand and flops back unceremoniously.

“It’s not what?” she prompts.

“Not . . .”

He loses his train of thought when she stretches her legs again, arching her back until it cracks. She lifts an eyebrow and folds her hands behind her head, enjoying the way he hungrily takes her body in. “Are you going to make me do a penance?”

“That’s a thought.” 

Before she can think of an appropriate reply, he’s straddling her again, holding her arms by the wrists over her head when she shifts in surprise. He does it with one hand. It isn’t hard enough to hurt, or even to keep her in place if she really wanted to get up and get away . . . but it’s enough to feel like he has her, to remind her he  _ could _ do more. His other hand is planted beside her on the mattress to support his weight as he leans forward and slides his tongue over her right breast. Rey can’t control the strangled moan it wrenches from her, and he laughs darkly against her chest before he does it again. His teeth scrape lightly at her like a warning, and then he sucks her nipple into his mouth.

“Ben, you’re—” She gives a high pitched laugh that turns into a rough sigh as he flicks his tongue over the firm peak. “The hell kind of penance is this?”

“Slightly unconventional,” he mumbles, and moves on to her other breast, stretching her arms higher until her knuckles knock against the headboard when she arches into him.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it.”

“I said unconventional.”

He continues availing himself at her breasts until she really is considering squirming out of his grasp and winding her fingers tight in his hair. But he lets her go first, settles his chest over hers, his legs off to the side, and cups her between her thighs, where she’s been dripping hot slick since he pinned her arms with such lazy ease. Her hands are gripping his hair hard, just like she wanted, as he kisses her and passes his fingers along her folds again. 

She’s pretty sure his hands were made for this. His fingers are long and thick, and his palms are soft, and he knows exactly how and where to touch her.  _ A priest should not be so good at this _ —but then he wasn't always a priest, was he? 

Her body is so loose and pliant he can get three fingers deep inside her practically right away. He pumps them in and out, a little deeper each time, curling slightly, agonizingly slow, and he clearly delights in her reactions as he stretches her further and begins to massage her clit with his thumb. Bright sparks of heat rush along her limbs and buzz in a tight bundle at her core. His forehead rests against hers, his hair keeps brushing her face, his scent is everywhere, and when the building pressure breaks over her she comes so hard and completely not because of the state she’s in but because of whose hands are carrying her through it.

He stays with her a few minutes afterward, sprawled next to her with a leg thrown over hers. The blanket is somewhere forgotten at their feet. It’s not as if she has a shortage of those. She’s on the verge of nodding off again when he twitches and sits up, then swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Where are you going?” Any other day she’d find her almost panicked tone and the way she grabs his wrist appalling, but the circumstances excuse it. There’s something she’s missing, and she can’t for the life of her remember what it is. “Don’t go yet.”

Ben looks over his shoulder at her and turns a little. “I’m not going. I need to call the rectory,” he says quietly. “Remember?”

“Shit. Yes. I’m— A mess. Don’t mind me. Go do your . . .” It occurs to her that he must have some story planned, because whatever he was doing tonight, it didn’t involve him spending the night anywhere. She sits up and runs her hands through her hair, then grabs a pillow to hug to her chest. “What the hell are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out by the time I dial.”

“Car trouble.”

Ben does nothing to hide his doubts. “Car trouble? Isn’t that a little pedestrian?”

“Exactly. It’s the type of mundane, shitty lie that can only be believable. Plus, look at it out there. You have a one-two punch at your disposal. Don’t overcomplicate it.”

She can tell from the look on his face that he isn’t convinced, and she hopes that whatever he comes up with instead fits the bill. They’re going to have to figure out how to proceed eventually, but she’d like to live in the illusion a little longer. Ben would too, she’s sure. He leans in and kisses her, then moves to go. Cross-legged on the bed, Rey bites her lip and watches him. This is the first time she’s really gotten to just  _ look _ at him with a clear head and . . . 

God help her.

“Hey.”

Bless him, he stops dead and glances back. “I’ll be right back.”

He thinks she needs reassurance. It’s sweet. She grins at him innocently. 

“I like the view from behind.”

Ben returns her look and snorts a laugh, then disappears into the other room.

+

Ben stops in the bathroom on his way out to the living room, because he really has to piss. The bathroom is a mess. The medicine cabinet is hanging open, half its contents knocked over or on the floor. There’s an overturned bottle of ibuprofen on the sink counter. There are no towels anywhere. It looks like Rey started to fill the tub (a nice clawfoot that makes him improbably jealous _ )  _ and changed her mind when it was half full but never drained it. When he’s taken care of his needs, he pulls the plug out of the drain and straightens up the counter, then turns on the sink faucet and bends to splash some water over his face. It might give him a little clarity, which he needs for what he is about to do. 

He catches a look at himself in the mirror. His hair is a mess and his lips are swollen and there are a few long, red scratches on his chest and arms, and he knows if he stands here looking much longer he’ll discover plenty of other evidence of how much Rey has been enjoying his body while he’s enjoyed hers. It’s . . sobering. For about half a second. And then it starts to turn him on.

Right. Clarity, definitely needed right now. He splashes more water on his face and chest and heads out to the living room.

The location of his coat isn’t immediately evident, but he spots his pants right away, grabs his boxer-briefs from inside them, and puts them on. It’s a little late to start having qualms about Rey seeing him naked, but he still feels weird prowling around her house like that, especially when he’s about to call the rectory and lie about what he has been doing for the last few hours. 

Because what’s he going to say? 

He runs through some options as he tosses their discarded clothing onto the end of the couch. “Visiting the sick” is not quite untrue, but the nature of his ministrations to Rey’s needs is a bit of a perverse take on a corporal work of mercy. There’s a retreat center about an hour’s drive from the city, out in the country, an old converted farm, where vetted Alphas can come to wait out ruts they don’t wish to act on. It’s large, spacious, and highly regimented. Ben’s been there a couple times since starting at Ailbe’s; but there’s no way he would get out there in this weather. He considers saying he had a family emergency, except he isn’t much in contact with his mother or his uncle these days. Even if he makes up some strange story about Luke being in the hospital, no one is going to believe that Ben’s driving to Montreal on a night like this. 

He hasn’t felt this shifty since he was a teenager.

His coat is crumpled in a heap on the floor near the coffee table, and his phone is in the pocket. At least one thing is where it should be. He has a few messages from Ransolm (they found some spare rum, the egg nog disaster has been averted, the volunteers are getting pleasantly tipsy, but is Ben planning on coming back at any point?) and a voicemail from Canady. He doesn’t need to listen to it to know what it will say.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. The weird thing is, Ben is starting to believe that. He can’t quite process that this night is happening, but he’s beginning to be okay with it. More than okay, even, when he thinks about the woman waiting for him to come back and stay with her until morning. It gives him a little burst of resolve.

Ben is about to dial Canady’s number when his eye snags on something sitting atop the coffee table. It’s a magazine or pamphlet of some kind, and printed in bold red letters across the top is one word.

**RESIST** .

His hand clenches so hard around his phone it actually makes a quiet cracking sound. His heart is pounding. This is a sign, isn’t it? Just as he’s getting complacent, feeling smug and satisfied about how his months of indulgent sin have culminated—here is one of those impossible-to-ignore coincidences that aren’t actually coincidences, just God’s way of communicating in the mundane. 

_ He has messed up _ , it tells him. _ He’s strayed from the path. But he could still turn away from further temptation. Pray, and repent, and do better. Resist. _

Ben doesn’t have to lie when he calls. He doesn’t have to come up with a story. He could just tell Canady everything. Unburden himself and accept the consequences. 

Then he blinks and looks at the pamphlet again. It doesn’t say “RESIST.” Not really. It’s a winter newsletter from RESist Labs, the robotics company where Rey develops home AI systems and personal robots. She’s explained parts of it to him before, and while his brain has always been geared more toward the humanities, he likes hearing the passion in her voice when she talks about her work. 

So no, maybe this isn’t a  _ sign _ . If it is, he’s going to ignore it anyway. He can’t confess this all now. The priesthood and the Church mean too much to him. They’re his identity. They’ve given his life direction and meaning for the last ten years. He can’t imagine sacrificing that in the span of a single cathartic phone call. He can’t imagine sacrificing whatever is happening between him and Rey, either. 

He would have to choose, and the most terrifying thing is that he thinks he would choose her. He’s not ready to feel the loss of all the rest and bear the weight of what it would mean for his soul. He can’t resist.

All that from a damn newsletter. Ben frowns down at it and flips it over, then walks over to the window to give himself something less stressful to look at while he makes the call—like the blizzard currently raging outside, slowly burying his truck and Rey’s car and everything else. God, she was right. He should just say he had car trouble and got screwed over by the weather when he was still in the city.

The phone rings twice, then Canady answers with his usual bluster. “Ben. We’ve been trying to reach you. What’s going on? We were expecting you back over an hour ago.”

“Yeah, I know.” The wind hurls a gust of wet snow at the window, and Ben flinches. “I dropped the donations off at the shelter and was heading back. Truck started overheating, I had to get off the road.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s . . . not great. But I got it to a shop before the storm really started.”

Down the hall, he hears Rey’s bedroom door creak, and then the sound of her footsteps shuffling. The bathroom door shuts a moment later.

“Ah.”

“I’m holed up in a motel right now.” Ben winces and leans his head against the cold glass of the windowpane. “They said it’s probably just the torque converter, so once I get it worked on tomorrow morning I’ll be set.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Canady chuckles gruffly, and Ben can hear activity in the background. Ransolm’s tipsy volunteers, he assumes. “Gotten brave about the weather suddenly, have you?”

Ben grits his teeth and ignores the fact that there’s a Beta questioning his mettle. “What are you talking about?”

“I guess you haven’t been keeping up with the reports. The storm changed course, and not for the better. It’s going to be snowing like this on and off all through tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Oh yes, my boy. Right now they’re saying it won’t start to clear until early Friday morning. Your power converter is the least of your problems.”

“Torque converter.”

“Yes, that. To be frank, even I wouldn’t recommend you attempt to make your way back tomorrow. Most of our volunteers are heading home early—we’ll resume deliveries over the weekend.” Canady laughs again, like it’s an amusing anecdote. “Will you be all right in this motel of yours until Friday?”

Ben can’t believe this. Here he was getting keyed up about a seemingly accusatory corporate newsletter, and the  _ storm has changed course _ . He knows this kind of thing happens all the time, but it feels like an act of God. It’s not. It would never be. But still. 

“It’s no Ritz-Carlton, but the accommodations have been satisfying so far.”  _ Get a grip, stop gloating. _ But he can’t help it. Not only does he have an excuse to be here tonight, he has an excuse to spend the entirety of tomorrow, maybe even part of Friday, here. With Rey. He’s practically beaming. He turns away from the window to avoid how ridiculous his expression is reflected back at him. “It’s fine.”

“You do like being left to yourself, don’t you?” Ben’s not sure if that’s a barb or not, but right now he doesn’t care. “Happy to hear you’re safe. Let’s be in touch Friday. Worst case, I’ll have Ransolm come out to retrieve you if your truck repairs take longer than expected.”

“I don’t think they will. But. Thanks, Mo.”

“You’re welcome, Ben. God bless. Stay warm, eh?"

Ben hangs up and stares at the room, trying to process. The sink is running in the bathroom, and then it’s not, and then Rey’s footfalls are receding toward her bedroom. He wants to get back to her right away and share the news but forces himself to calm down and take a few moments to think. Once he’s in her presence again, thinking is going to become very difficult. And while he doubts she wants to be alone for long—he knows how needy Omegas get when they are in heat—he also knows Rey herself is proud and rather private. There’s a part of her that likely finds this embarrassing and demeaning, and even though she chose to let him in, she might appreciate some peace before their bodies decide to make that impossible. If he’s wrong, well, he has an entire day to make it up to her. 

So he heads to the kitchen, taking in the space around him for the first time as he goes. The condo is small but nicely put up. The walls are light green, except for one, where she’s added a mural—a nature scene at the height of summer, flowers and trees and vines. No photos of family or friends, which surprises him until he remembers she has no family and has only ever spoken of two friends. Otherwise, a lot of Rey’s decorative choices seem to slant toward scrap art, and she clearly enjoys movies, because she has a bookshelf filled to the top with Blu-rays. She has a lot of plants, mostly those succulent things that don’t require much in the way of water or maintenance. There are weird touches, too, that must be the result of her earlier nesting frenzy and make him wonder what the place looks like in better times, when all the couches and chairs aren’t missing their cushions and pillows and the area rug isn’t pulled crookedly halfway across the floor. 

She also has some sort of penchant for coffee-scented candles, because there appears to be one on almost every flat surface in the living room, and more when he reaches the kitchen. He sees the evidence of her interrupted cookie-baking endeavor, which makes him a little sad, and then more than a little hungry. He guzzles a glass of water, eyeing the windowsill herb garden, then refills it to bring back with him and grabs the mixing bowl of unbaked dough for good measure. On his way back through the living room, he caves to impulse and retrieves the stolen T-shirt Rey was wearing when he arrived.

When he enters the bedroom, she’s curled up in the nest of blankets and pillows that surrounds the foot of her bed, awake and flipping through a book. She hasn’t bothered to put any clothes on, and even though the energy coming off her is feverishly restless again, she looks like she must have cleaned up a bit in the bathroom. The scent of her in here has almost physical weight, and he feels his belly tighten and his cock twitch. When she sees him enter, she perks up.

“How’d it go?” Her head tilts as she looks at him with an appraising expression. “Did you come up with a good story?”

Ben grimaces. “I told him I had car trouble.”

She emits a short burst of laughter and sits up, her gaze flicking to what he’s carrying. “And then raided my kitchen?”

“Raided is a strong word for it. I thought you might be thirsty.” He holds out the glass to her, and when she accepts it he indicates the bowl of cookie dough. “And I was hungry. Can we eat this?”

“Might as well. I don’t see myself spending time baking tomorrow.”

“Good. You should eat some actual food too.” 

“There’s leftover Italian in the fridge. Some other things. This is fine for now.” 

She’s spooning dough into her mouth with her fingers, clearly delighted, and it gives him the weirdest urge to feed her like she’s some sort of invalid. Then fuck her again.

“I’ll make you something in a little while,” he says, and the urge subsides. “You need protein.”

“Don’t worry. Really. Always wanted an excuse to have sweets for dinner.”

He lingers outside the border of the nest, eyeing the collection of comfort objects she has arrayed around her. She spent some time moving the sex toys out of sight, and he’s not sure if he’s happy about it or disappointed. The rest is mostly pillows and blankets, though there’s a large plush badger wedged conspicuously close to her. He catches an odd scent from it—not hers, nor any he recognizes. Inoffensive, faded, reminiscent of a Beta. For a moment it rankles him anyway, but then Rey moves and his attention fixes back on her. 

She downs the glass of water in mere seconds and begins to refill it from a pitcher she had squirreled away. “Are you going to sit with me?” 

He forces himself to stop staring at the attractive slope of her naked back and sinks down beside her, still wary of knocking anything out of order, then puts the T-shirt down next to her leg. “I thought you might want to add this.”

Her face lights up as she shakes the shirt out and pulls it on. “Better this way.”

“When it went missing I assumed I just left it behind at the lake.”

“No, I . . . er.” She looks more amused than embarrassed. “Nicked it. I know I shouldn’t have, but you have no idea what seeing you in it was doing to me, and then after the run, I tried to find you because you disappeared so quickly. I thought I caught your scent, but it was just a bag in the back of your truck.” By now there’s a definite laugh in her voice. “It was ridiculous—but I was climbing into the truck bed before I even knew what I was about. Found this shirt inside. I even stole a spray of your scent blocker, if you can believe it.” He can, far too easily. He remembers how she smelled like him and how it made him speculate. Rey smirks and shrugs, picking at the hem. “You can take it with you.”

“It’s okay, it looks good on you. Keep it.” Without thinking, he rubs his face against her neck gland, then leans closer and presses his own to it. “I like the way you smell in it.”

“So do I.” 

She relaxes into him, and it’s like the cab of his truck all over again, except for the utter lack of hesitance. She draws her hand up along the exposed side of his neck, stretches her fingers into his hair, and lets her wrist rest over his other gland. The sensation manages to be both comforting and exciting. He hasn’t been touched like this is such a long time, maybe ever. It makes him realize how much he missed being close to her even in the handful of minutes he was away. Her skin is so, so hot.

“How are you feeling?”

Rey expels a long breath and circles her free hand over his chest and down his abdomen. “Still quite angry at myself. And overall not very good at all. But I’m happy you’re here.”

“Will you need to have another go soon?”

She laughs and pulls away to sit next to him again, her arm brushing his as she returns to her dinner and gestures for him to get in on it. Ben picks at the dough, and it’s as delicious this way as it is cooked, but he resolves to leave her most of it. The heat from her body is crawling over him again and making him want to roll her beneath him and draw it all into himself.

“Once I finish this we really should,” she says after another moment. “If it’s all right with you.”

“There’s a constant undercurrent to my thoughts telling me to rut your brains out, so be assured it’s all right with me whenever you need it.”

“Then I’ll put you through the paces before you go in the morning.”

She sounds sad when she says that, and Ben remembers what he wanted to tell her. “Actually. I’m not going anywhere in the morning. Or at all, tomorrow. It’s not supposed to stop snowing like this until Friday.”

Rey’s eyes are wide with elation. “Are you serious?”

“I had the same thought when I heard, but yeah. It might not get you through all of your heat, but I’ll do what I c—” 

He’s cut off when she flings herself at him and kisses him, then pushes him onto his back and clambers on top of him before he can react. Scratch that—part of him reacts. His cock gets hard so fast he sees stars. 

“I know you will,” she murmurs, already rolling her crotch against his, over and over, as if either of them needs the stimulation to get going. Her excitement and need are practically vibrating over him. “I know. It’s perfect.”

Rey is making a mess of the front of his boxer-briefs. He’s not sure why he bothered to put them on. They’ll need to go. She’s already working on it. Ben tugs her shirt off. He’s not sure why she bothered to put that on either. She’s not going to need it until Friday.


	9. Say It Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back - we have a long chapter here! Nothing major to note, except that as far as I know, the park Rey and Ben go to in this chapter does not have the sort of cabin they stay in available for camping in the winter (or at all?). Hooray artistic license. 
> 
> Also, I may take an extra week between posting this chapter and the next (and last, ahhhhh!!!). I'm in the middle of writing it now, but it's shaping up to be another long boi, and might require a bit more time for me to finish up along with some other things I have going on. We shall see! In any case, you can find me on Twitter at thisgarbagepic1, and on Tumblr at thisgarbagepicker.
> 
> Lastly, in the interest of transparency because ships can be a touchy subject, there is a reference to a _past_ , short-lived Finn-Rey fuck-buddy situation when Rey found herself struggling through some of her rougher heats. I added a tag as well. Not trying to blindside anyone who's been following since the beginning, it just didn't occur to me to tag that element, as it's only there to serve as backstory.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3

January is strange and difficult. While people are making all sorts of New Year’s resolutions they’ll forget about by March, Rey is resolving not to put herself in situations that are likely to end with her and Ben falling into bed together again. In theory, it shouldn’t be that much of a challenge. 

Her heat was a reason for them to give in to something they’d been fighting. An excuse. It didn’t make it  _ okay _ , but it made it . . . understandable. They talked about it before he left her house after nearly two days with her, when the worst of her heat was beginning to ebb, when they could speak without the constant urge to fill and be filled. She won’t say anything about what had happened. Neither will he. But it needs to not happen again. They’ll be more careful with the suppressants—not overdo them, use more scent blockers. They’ll figure out how to be around each other and manage the irrational, insistent demand for more. The tension is dispelled, the curiosity is sated. They did what they did, and now they can move on.

It’s fine. She continues to eschew the confession charade, which is its own sort of relief. She can admit Ben was right on that front. It’s difficult to be alone with him, and it’s a waste of both their time. And after a busy month of holiday preparations and recovery, there’s not much going on at St. Ailbe’s for her to involve herself in, so she just doesn’t go near the church. It is the perfect opportunity to return to some sort of equilibrium.

It lasts four weeks. Then, a few days before the end of the month, Rey receives a text from Ben. It’s a weird text. 

_ Can I call you? _

That’s one of the things he does too—puts up buffers to interaction, adds superficial layers of separation. He’s giving her an extra chance to decline. Because apparently things like simply not seeing each other, deleting each other’s numbers, any  _ logical actions _ are impossible for them. They both know what they need to do, and neither of them does it. 

So she texts back that yes, of course he can call. It’s another ten minutes before her phone vibrates, and she’s still shocked to see his name (well, the letter ‘B’ anyway, which is how she labeled his number months ago) flash across the screen. She debates for a moment, then picks up.

“Hey.”

He’s quiet long enough that she wonders if he might hang up. “Hey.”

It’s been a month since she’s heard his voice, and her heart skips just from the one syllable word. It’s embarrassing but unsurprising. At least he doesn’t see the way her cheeks go pink, or the way she nervously wrings her free hand at the hem of her sweater, or the way she nearly presses her mouth to the receiver, like she might be able to taste or smell him through it.

But he can definitely tell that she seems to have forgotten how to speak. The point of calling is to talk. Neither of them are talking.  _ Fuck _ .

“Er . . .” She laughs nervously (or giddily, maybe . . . she just knows it’s not her normal laugh). “Happy New Year.”

He huffs at the other end. “You too. Good one?”

“Yeah, more or less. Went out with some people from the lab. Ate more subpar  hors d’oeuvres than I usually do in a year. It was fun.” 

She actually means it; it  _ was  _ fun. None of her coworkers are tried and true friends, but they know how to have a nice night out, and she was glad she didn’t follow her initial instinct to order takeaway and spend the night alone.

“How about you?”

“I said a Vigil Mass,” he says, and she thinks he must be smirking in anticipation of her uncertain response. “January First is a holy day.”

“Oh. That sounds . . .”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, afterward I had a few drinks to even things out.”

“How devious.”

“Not so much.”

Rey is tempted to push him a bit, ask if he’s made any good resolutions. It occurs to her that maybe that’s what he’s calling about. Some more definitive boundaries. She ignores the squirm of dread.  
“So . . . you wanted to talk to me?” There’s another conspicuous pause. In the background, she thinks she hears a car door slamming and a string of dog barks. “Are you out somewhere?”

“I’m at the park. In the truck. I was running. Listen, um.” He expels a breath through his mouth, and she can picture it: the way his lips purse, the glimpse of teeth, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip just after, the puff of his flushed cheeks, a glimmer of sweat on his throat when he swallows. “You remember I mentioned I go camping sometimes? In the winter?”

Huh. This is not what she was expecting, but she’s curious.

“Yeah. Some provincial park, right?”

“Right. I . . . I’m planning a trip there now. Last week of February. Five days.”

He stops again, and Rey frowns. “Uh huh.”

“Are you— If you could get the time off . . .”

“The time off?”

“Come with me. I’m inviting you to come with me. I’d like you to.”

Rey’s mouth hangs open with a response she has not yet determined. She thinks back to December and to what they agreed then. She does not recall there being an exemption for camping trips. Had she misunderstood?

“Like . . . to stay the whole time?”

“Obviously.”

She does not think it’s obvious at all.

“Didn’t we say it was better if we didn’t revisit anything?”

“Yeah, I know. If you don’t want to, say so and I won’t ask again.”

“No, I just don’t really understand. I’m surprised. That’s all.”

“I am too. Or, I’m . . . shit.” Something clatters at his end. He must have been playing with the seat belt. “Listen, I know what we said about leaving what happened in December behind us. We should. But— I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“Oh.”

“If you feel the same way, it’s just . . . a few days.”

Rey knows the way that goes. She just thought it might be easier for him—he has far more incentive to want this done with. And she senses that if she says no now, there will be a finality to it. It will be a real end. 

From her couch, she scans the living room, eyes the front door. There’s a cappuccino-scented candle lit on the coffee table. In her bedroom, folded up beneath her pillow, is that St. Ailbe’s T-shirt. At this point she’s pretty sure the scent of their two days together is permanently woven into the fibers. Does he really think she’s going to turn him away? 

Rey bites her lip and sinks further down into the couch. 

“What are the dates?”

Which is how she finds herself in the cab of his truck a few weeks later, warm and toasty and swimming in his scent, thinking,  _ This is fine. It’s fine. It’s what you both want.  _

They’re driving up to a cabin somewhere in a forested campsite in Algonquin Provincial Park, a few hours northeast of Toronto. For most of the ride, Ben has swung wildly between bizarre loquaciousness and ominous reticence. He’s in one of his broods right now, though it’s probably because the roads have become trickier since they got off the highway. There’s snow everywhere and signs half-hidden behind low, ice-laden branches. Yet as they approach their destination, she can see why he comes up here—it is beautiful, and quiet, and, most of all, secluded. 

“It’s just another ten minutes, I think,” Ben says abruptly, grimacing at his phone, where it’s mounted on the dash and acting as their GPS. Was, anyway. The cell service has been iffy for the last half hour and the connection keeps cutting in and out, so Rey has taken over by reading off a printout. “Fair warning, I’ve never used the cabins before, so if it’s weird . . .”

Rey considers asking him if he means any weirder than an Alpha priest inviting his Omega female friend on a secret sex holiday, but refrains. Might set the wrong mood. Instead, she laughs quietly and adjusts the heating vent. 

“I know, you’ve said.”

“Have I?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Cozy,” she suggests. “Better than being crammed into a tent in your truck bed freezing my arse off.”

“I wouldn’t let you freeze.”

She’s not looking at him when he says it, but she catches the hint of a smile in his voice and glances at him. Maybe it’s just because she’s had sex with him, but it’s almost impossible to think of him as a priest anymore. For a while, at the beginning, before things actually started to go toward whatever the hell this is, she thought she was probably getting off on that part—the collar and the vows and the forbidden aspect. The attraction was always too tied up with the Alpha thing for her to tell, and it wasn’t a part of her psyche she wanted to probe too deeply. 

But he doesn’t feel like a priest to her at all lately, and he doesn’t look like one either, especially now, grinning at his own stupid innuendo and as casually dressed as she is. Which she guesses is a danger of this, but it barely registers. If anything, she’s started to begrudge it a bit. It’s a thing that gets between them. It’s a thing that makes this a source of conflict for him. It’s a thing that makes her feel like she should be more conflicted about it than she already is.

“I’m going to hold you to that anyway, even if the cabin’s a sweltering sauna,” she tells him.

“I’m counting on it.”

The next few hours pass quickly. Once they arrive, they have things to unload from the truck, things to unpack inside. Ben decides to go chop some firewood, because clearly Rey doesn’t have enough reasons to find him unbearably attractive without that image and the smell of him afterward seared into her senses. 

She thinks he might also be doing it on purpose, though. Finding things to do, like he’s trying to delay the inevitable, even though he’s the one who asked her to come up here. Rey doesn’t get the idea that he has second thoughts, exactly—his scent is too powerful for it. She knows how desire smells on him, and happiness. He’s happy she’s here with him; more than that, he  _ wants _ her. 

Still, he’s clearly denying himself, and when the sun has set and they’re settled, a fire crackling in the hearth and dinner done, there’s really not much else to do. No television, no real cell phone service to speak of, no books on the shelf aside from the one Rey brought with her (and a few Ben brought too). There’s a small living room with an even smaller cooking area, a small bedroom, and a tiny bathroom. Everything smells like wood, and cold, and him, and her. He can’t possibly hold out any longer.

They’re cleaning up their dishes when he announces, apropos of nothing, “I’m going to take a shower.”

Under any other circumstance, Rey might take that as an invitation, but she’s seen the shower and has her doubts about whether Ben will even manage to fit in there by himself, let alone with anyone else. So while he’s occupied, she decides that there can be no room for misunderstanding about what they’ll be doing when he emerges. She gets naked and stretches out on the bed, on top of the quilts, and reads a while. But he’s in there a long time, and even with the fire going, she starts to get cold, so she grabs the flannel he wore while chopping earlier, slips it on, and enjoys the cocoon of softness and scent it makes as she lies back and waits.

Finally, he emerges, wet-haired, a towel wrapped around his waist, and she sits up. The firelight is casting dramatic shadows over everything in the room, including him. She can make out all the intriguing planes and curves of his body she missed the last time she saw him naked. 

“That shower must be better than it looks,” she says with an eager grin. “You took your time.”

He chuffs and walks further into the room, rubbing a hand through his hair. She feels a hot, tense twinge between her thighs. His scent has just surged again, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off her. “The water took almost ten minutes to get hot.”

“Ah, here I thought maybe you were having a bit of one-on-one time to get ready.”

“What?” Even in the low light, she can see him go a bit red. “Why would—”

“I just . . . always imagined that’s where you would do it.” She gets up and walks toward him, shirt open and draping. The floor is warm and smooth underfoot. “In the shower.” 

“You imagined me jerking off in the shower?”

She shrugs. “Was I right?”

“Yes.” His scent hits her in a torrent as his eyes crawl over her bared skin and fix on the apex of her thighs. His nostrils flare once. “I did. A lot.” 

“Thinking about me?”

“Yes.”

“Was it terribly sinful of you?”

He frowns a little but steps nearer. She’s only trying to be playful, and he seems to realize it. “Yes.”

“Did you stop after my heat? After you got the real thing?” 

Rey is right in front of him now. She raises herself up on her toes and clips at the side of his neck with her teeth, pressing her breasts to his chest as her hands sweep down his sides. His skin is still damp and a little cool, but she feels it warm quickly under her touch. His hands slide inside her shirt, over her sides, around to her back.

He gives a small, incredulous laugh. “No.”

“Did you ever confess it?”

“No.”

He murmurs it against the crown of her head and starts to peel the shirt back off her shoulders, but she steps back, just out of reach. He’s regarding her with heavy-eyed confusion as she cants her head and eyes the towel around his waist. He’s not fully erect, but she can see his cock beginning to push against it. Rey reaches forward and pulls the towel off, considers him for a few moments more, and folds it a few times.

“What are you—”

His question seizes when she puts her improvised cushion down on the floor near his feet, kneels down in front of him, and runs her hands up the back of his thighs and over his ass. He’s getting harder before her eyes. She became quite well-acquainted with his cock the last time, but not this way—if it wasn’t inside her, he was taking care of her with his mouth or hands, and she was in no state to complain. But she’s thought about it a few times ever since, what it would be like to take him with her mouth and return the favor. There are scent glands there, too, where his thighs meet his groin, just as potent and tempting and sensitive as the ones at his neck and wrists, and the ring of soft skin at the base of his shaft, slightly raised and barely noticeable in its unknotted state.

Rey bites her lip and passes her palms over his hips, rubbing her thumbs over the slight rise of bone. He smells so good. Clean, like the soap he used in the shower, with the thundering thread of an aroused Alpha just beneath it pulsing up from his pores. For a moment she can’t help herself. She wraps a hand around his shaft and circles her thumb over his ruddy, exposed glans, then presses her open mouth to the heated skin at the inside of his thigh and runs her tongue over him until he moans and tenses.

“Is this okay?” she asks belatedly, pulling back and darting her eyes up to his face. He’s staring down at her with his mouth hanging open and his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I thought you might . . . need to relax. You’ve been acting sort of—”

“Yes, it’s okay.”

It occurs to her as she kisses and nibbles the gland on his other thigh before drawing the head of his cock into her mouth that there’s probably something here beneath the surface: her on her knees in front of him like a supplicant while his hands rest tentatively on her head and then begin to wind into her hair. She’s not going to think about that. Ben trembles with a low, groaning sigh as she draws him deeper and moves a hand to his shaft to spread her saliva over him, then lets her fingers drift over his knot. The texture of the skin there is slightly different. Softer; more elastic, almost; thinner and warmer, like there’s more blood running there than elsewhere. More nerves, too, it seems. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” Ben exclaims through gritted teeth when she presses her thumb over it in little back-and-forth arcs and sucks at him with more fervor. His hands tighten in her hair, and a spurt of precum hits her tongue as she sweeps it beneath the head. A wash of heat pulses at her core. She bobs her head to take more of him. 

He’s trying not to buck into her. She can feel it in the way his thighs tense and his feet shift. Considerate, but not really what she wants, which she realizes when he does it again and she feels a tickle of disappointment. Next time he does it, when she’s letting up on his knot to cup his balls instead, she tries to encourage him. She hums against him, grips his thigh tighter, and coaxes him to rock into her, just enough that she can set the pace, keep him from pushing too deep and making her gag. 

He seems to like that. One of his hands has drifted from her hair to the side of her face. His fingertips keep dragging over her gland, his nails scraping lightly in a little gesture of praise, and she’s positive she must be a dripping mess.

She can tell that he’s getting close, that it’s harder for him to resist the urge to speed the thrust of his hips and race across to the finish. Thumb still massaging the underside of his knot, Rey takes him in nearly to the back of her throat and slides her other hand along the inside of his upper thigh again, kneading his scent gland with the pads of her fingers. His legs buckle, and there’s a sudden, rapid pulse along his shaft the instant before he comes over her tongue. Even though she was expecting it, Rey jolts anyway. Her hand tightens and her lips quiver as she swallows the first splash of cum. She’s less taken off guard by the rest, and she releases him a few seconds after it ends, catching a stray drop or two on her bottom lip and swiping it away with her fingers before collapsing back onto her butt.

Despite the towel, her knees are a little sore, and she rubs them gingerly as she watches Ben’s feet shuffle forward a couple steps, the floor creaking under his weight. His hand pets at her hair again, tangling the strands between his fingers. A moment later he crouches in front of her and nearly topples into her before he covers her hands with his own and kisses her. His tongue slips between her lips, and then his mouth opens, and it’s like he wants to devour her. She starts to drift onto her back, inviting him to follow. The floor isn’t the ideal location, but . . .

“The bed,” he says as he pulls away, voice thick, almost drunk.

She’s not really listening, just grasps his forearms and pulls herself nearer, parting her knees to make room for him. “Hmm?”

“Get in bed. You’ve spent enough time on the floor.”

He dips his face to kiss her knees, which shouldn’t be sensual at all but somehow is, then pulls her to her feet as he rises. The bed is only a few feet away, so she doesn’t even need to turn around or travel very far before he’s lowering her onto it. Just her legs are dangling off the end, and she’s about to scoot further back, but Ben slides his hands beneath her thighs and keeps her where she is.

He leans over her, close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin. Another inch and they’d be touching, he’d be holding her down, but they’re not. She tries to arch her back to brush her breasts against his chest, tries to pull his hips down to her own. He doesn’t let her. The denial drives her crazy. Judging by the way he smirks, he knows. 

With his hands planted at either side of her shoulders, he lets his lips brush hers. “Stay.”

“Like th—  _ ohh! _ ”

Before she can finish her response, Ben kneels at the end of the bed and nips the inside of her right thigh, at the very edge of her scent gland. The spot is so tender his teeth there almost hurt, but in a way that makes her crave more. When he does it again and follows with a long pass of his tongue over the same spot, she gives a moan of approval and squeezes her thighs against his head briefly. She can’t decide if she wants to hold him there or let him keep going. The moment she releases he lifts one of her legs over his shoulder, presses his mouth to her center, and drags his tongue over her there instead. 

He takes it slowly. The urgency of their last time together is gone—or it’s there, but it’s a different sort. The need and desire are the same, but he seems to want to draw this out. Like they don’t have five whole days ahead of them.

Oh God, five days. It’s the longest time they’ll have spent together. In a lot of ways, tonight feels like it could be their first. Now isn’t the time to worry about how strange that might be. What it could mean. This is something to be enjoyed. Something that should not be happening at all, even if there hasn’t been a single day over the last two months she hasn’t thought of him.

He’s angling her other thigh outward, opening her more. The air feels good on her hot skin, though not as good as the way he sucks at her lips. Not as good as the way he draws his tongue in lazy circles around her entrance like she’s a treat he is savoring. His tongue stiffens and he pushes it inside her until his nose and chin are soaked too. Every part of her is abuzz, hot and electric. When his mouth is no longer enough he uses his fingers, just one at first, soon a second, slowly working her muscles looser as he moves his lips to her clit.

Was this what it was like with him before? He went down on her a couple times, but it was practical. Just like everything they’d done. The orgasms kept the heat sated longer between ruts, made the next peak more tolerable. The pleasure was secondary. As if either of them believed that.

It’s surely not the case now. This is all about pleasure—hers, and the pleasure he derives from giving it to her. He’s fondling her breast with one hand, rolling her nipple between his finger and thumb as his mouth continues to work her over. The intensity of his attention climbs with her reactions and urges her toward climax. He eases off her slowly when she breaks with a sobbing gasp, follows her through it with long strokes of his hands and gentle, nuzzling kisses as her muscles loosen and the euphoria settles. 

Ben traverses the rest her body with the same attentive delight, warming the glands at her thighs under his palms, dragging his open mouth over her belly and ribs, kissing and caressing her breasts, her neck, her face. They've been here before, but they haven't. There’s a clear-eyed reverence to each look and touch that is new. What he does to her feels like an act of adoration.

He becomes hotter, more desperate, like he wants to possess all of her at once. Another half a minute and he’ll be ready to go again. His cock keeps pressing against her, sliding between her legs when his hips bump hers. Rey thinks of the last time, how it had felt comforting to be able to look at him as he helped her through her heat. She knows he didn’t want to do it like that, not at first. She suspects she knows why. But he listened to her that day. Even in the throes of it, he still wanted her to feel safe and cared for. 

“Ben, lemme up.” She mumbles it into his neck, where she’s been nibbling at his skin and sucking a lovebite into it. It’ll be gone by the time they head back. She hopes. If not . . . good thing about the collar. She kneads a knuckle against his pectoral and tries again, voice lower. “I’ve got something for you, Alpha.”

He snickers against her temple. She hasn’t been able to forget the way his whole body vibrated with pleasure when she uttered that word to him (admittedly in a moment of thoughtless lust, as much a reflex as his reaction) in her bedroom as the snow fell outside the window. Now she’s being facetious, but he likes it anyway, she can tell. And it’s a test too—she wants to see how it feels to say those things to him when she really means it, when it isn’t some compulsion.

And yes, she likes it. 

“I have everything I want right here,” he tells her, pressing himself teasingly between her legs.

She brings her lips to his ear. “You still want to bend me over and fuck me from behind?”

He expels a sharp breath that ruffles her hair and tickles her forehead.

“I want you to this time,” she says. He’s giving her a little space, so she shuffles up onto her elbows. “Do you?”

“Yes.” 

There’s a rasp in his voice, and he kisses her a few times, each one a little fiercer than the last as his hands skim over her body. He lets her up, and for a handful of moments they’re rearranging themselves on the bed, unsteady for the bounciness of the old mattress, laughing when she tips backward into him and he catches her. Pressed to her back, he gives a lewd chuckle and peels his shirt off one of her shoulders, then nips her there.

“Didn’t learn your lesson about stealing shirts from me the last time, did you?” 

His hand skims up her ribs to cup her exposed breast, and she arches into him to increase the pressure of his palm. She wonders what lesson she was supposed to learn. That he would let her keep them? That he likes the way she smells wrapped up in him? 

“Worried you’re going to run out of regular clothing?” she asks. “Be a shame if you had to start going around shirtless all the time.”

“I’m sure you’d hate that.”

He pulls the shirt off her and throws it onto the floor. His hands return to roam over all the soft bits of her body, fingers inching down toward her mound as he nibbles at her neck. Rey gives a teasing peep of shock and leans forward hard, driving her ass against his hips and planting her hands on the mattress. She bumps him again and dips her torso forward in a cat stretch. 

His breath catches, and he expels it in a slow, shaky sigh. For an instant she worries she has done something wrong. This is what he wanted, right? But his hand is on her back, palm flat over her skin. He’s just touching her. He leans over her as his second hand joins the first, tracing her shoulders, her sides, her back, lingering over the curve of her ass. Gentle, maybe even awed. It’s a nice thought.

“Ben?”

His response is a low hum. The sound reminds her of his voice in her living room, when she let herself be bare to him for the first time. When he told her she was good. At the time it had surprised her—not because he said it, but because she liked it so much. She still does. The idea that he approves of what she’s doing and delights in what he sees. Ben stretches out over her until his chest rests against her back. His fingers brush over her sex, then touch her more boldly. He’s damp with sweat and breathing hard, and when his scent hits her nose it’s tempting to tell him to just fuck her already. She wants him to lose himself and crumble for her again.

“Slick little thing,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t seem embarrassed by it, just scrapes his teeth over the back of her shoulder and draws her hair aside to nuzzle her neck. God, yes, he does like it. He’s slow and careful, applying light pressure to her clit as he slips his thumb inside her. “You’re ready to take me, aren’t you?”

“ _ Yes _ .” She drives herself backward into him as he withdraws his hand. “I want to feel you wh—" Her request dissolves into a moan as he begins to press inside. “I’ve missed it, Ben. The way your cock fills me. Please—” 

His hands are still at her hips, his fingers tensing as he pushes further into her and chokes back a moan. She gasps into the bedspread. Even with everything he did to make sure she was ready, it feels different than the last time—nothing about his anatomy has changed, but she’s tighter and less pliant, wet but not Omega-heat slick. 

Another deep breath of his scent and she shudders with pleasure. She would bend herself deeper if she could. She would contort into any shape to take him. 

“Ben . . .”

“You okay?” 

He pauses, and he’s trembling a little, like it’s hard not to start thrusting into her immediately. One of his hands moves to her lower back, a soothing sweep of his fingers that trails goosebumps over her skin. 

“I’m fine,” she assures him, laughing despite herself. “Keep going.”

It’s a little longer before he’s fully seated. He’s deeper than she remembers as her body acclimates to having him like this. Still stretched out with her chest pressed to the bed, her right cheek resting on the coverings, Rey feels him start to move. Beneath them, the mattress gives and shifts, and she curls a hand into the quilt as he finds a slow pace, enough to make sure she’s comfortable before he begins to take her faster.

She rolls her face into the mattress, her forehead pressed down, enough to breathe and still enjoy the heat and darkness. She likes this. The gentle bend of her body and the sound of his skin on hers and the rocking of the unfamiliar bed. The fact that the only scent she really knows in this room aside from her own is his. The soft friction of the quilt under her body, a light, teasing brush against her nipples as her breasts bounce with each movement. The way he holds her in place, his hands at her hips or drifting over her ass or sliding up her sides. His weight pressing her down. It’s comfortable in a way she hadn’t expected, and it makes her want more.

Behind her, Ben leans forward, and the change in the angle pulls a moan from her as she turns her face to the side again. “Ben . . . can you . . .” She draws another shuddering gasp. “Hold me down."

He gives a grunt of surprise, or maybe pleasure, then slows. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. However you want. I trust you.”

A few moments pass as he continues to move, then he presses closer and places a hand at the back of her neck. He applies just enough pressure that she can no longer turn or lift her head.

His words are ragged as he rocks into her, a few slow, deliberate pumps of his hips, like he’d rather not talk much anymore. “Tell me if this hurts. We can try something else.”

“Mm hm.” 

Rey tries to nod, but she can’t, which amuses her. She almost giggles, but he begins to move with greater confidence and the sound comes out as a guttering sigh instead. The minute twitches of his fingers against her pulse are a reminder—he’s being careful. He wants her to enjoy this. And when she can tell he’s finally letting himself go, she does too. Soon enough she’s pressed fully into the mattress, enveloped by him, his body heavy and hot on top of hers. He’s propped on his elbows and bucking hard, he’s  _ loud _ , and she feels his mouth and teeth at her shoulders, her neck, her ears as his uneven breaths heat her hair. 

She’s all but immobilized. She could be at his mercy. Instead she feels safe. She feels good. It doesn’t even bother her that she hasn’t come again when he does. The rest was satisfying and intimate, and she doubts Ben will deprive her of her due over the next few days. 

The only truly jarring part is that he’s out of her so quickly after. He ejaculates inside her, and her brain, for a flicker of a moment, wonders why she hasn’t felt his knot yet. Why they aren’t locked together. Why, instead, he’s softening already, he’s pulling out, he’s pushing himself off of her to give her space. She doesn’t want space. She wants him, as close and completely as possible. 

They aren’t used to being anything _ but _ close afterward, she realizes. It’s the only thing that feels right with him. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he wants his own half of the bed or tries to throw up some boundary, the ever-present spectre that he shouldn’t have done this. She’s fretting over nothing—he doesn’t let their parting last long. Barely half a minute later he’s cuddled right up to her beneath the quilts; though “cuddled” begins to seem too innocent a term when he immediately dips his head to take her breast in his mouth and his hand finds its way between her legs. He rubs and caresses her until she comes around his fingers, then pets her soothingly until the tremors of her orgasm subside.

When she scoots on top of him to bury her face in his neck and he wraps his arms around her and nuzzles her in return, she thinks for the second time that day,  _ This is fine.  _ Perhaps—probably—he’s telling himself the same thing. 

Against her cheek, his pulse is slow. His scent is subdued and smooth, the sort of thing that tells her that she is secure and cared for, she could sleep here, why would she want to sleep anywhere else? A troubling thought, though easy to forget in the next breath she inhales. 

His lips twitch over her skin. “I missed you.” 

He murmurs it very quietly, right against her temple. Almost as if he is just testing the words out and didn’t mean for her to hear it. He said her, not  _ this. _ Not this as in the sex, or the secrecy, or the hurried sharing of time and scent and space. Ben missed  _ her _ , and she knows exactly what he means because she feels it too. Clearly, she’s not the only one in trouble here. Rey isn’t sure if she’s supposed to say it back (but she did, she did miss him), so she tips her head back and kisses him instead. If they’re going to talk about this, she doesn’t want it to be now. She can’t see it ending well, and it’s too soon to cast a pall over the next few days.

+

They don’t talk about it the next day, or the one after that. Neither of them brings up the question of how and if this can continue. Neither of them takes it upon themselves to make this weird. In fact, the days are weird only because they feel so normal. 

Ben wasn’t expecting it to be this easy. He and Rey have never gone on anything like a date. They have never been alone together in a capacity that wasn’t dictated by limitations. There is an intimacy between them, but it was forged in highly irregular fires. This  _ should _ be weirder. Right?

Instead, all he can think is that this is what he’s spent almost a year waiting for. They spend the mornings sleeping in, waking each other slowly and then less slowly; they relax indoors because they have nowhere in particular to be beyond ‘together’; they cook; they go on hikes or runs; he shows her how to chop firewood (though he’s pretty sure she just wants to swing the axe around). At night they stargaze and play board games, they enjoy the fire and see who holds out the longest before one of them tempts the other out of their clothes and into bed. Afterward, they fall asleep satisfied and loose-limbed, tossed and tangled, and start the cycle all over again the next day. 

The thought of how shockingly natural all of these things are with her is laced with guilt. Every time. Deservedly. 

He had this moment in the shower the first night, while the water was inching toward being anything but frigid, when he was furious with himself. What was he thinking, inviting her to spend almost a week with him? What  _ is _ he thinking? December was one thing. They both agreed it was beyond their control (a lie, really, but one he happily indulges most of the time). This is . . . it’s like the first time he fantasized about her. A deliberate, calculated choice for a deliberate, calculated end. A clear-headed forward march into iniquity. Each day that passes—hell, each  _ hour _ —it becomes less and less likely he will march out of it unscathed. No, this is going to hurt, eventually, and he’ll have earned every sting, every stab, every strike. 

It would be nice if he could make it so that Rey won’t feel it too, but he suspects it’s too late for that. This isn’t just biological anymore. There are feelings. 

Thoughts like this plagued him as he stood under the water. When he stepped out he was clean and half-convinced that when he joined Rey, it would only be to tell her they were making a terrible mistake and to hope she would forgive him for it. Again. As if he has any right to be that lucky twice.

His conviction began to come apart the moment he saw her waiting for him in bed; it evaporated when she began walking toward him, teasing him, wearing his shirt from earlier, the front hanging open to reveal the smooth skin between her breasts, all gold and rosy in the firelight, and the sweet, warm thatch of hair at the juncture of her thighs. By the time she was on her knees and sucking his cock, he wasn’t sure he even knew what the word “conviction” meant. He has not thought of it much since then, except in brief moments when they aren’t together.

They’re together a lot. Now, too.

It’s the fourth night, and it’s snowing lightly—picturesque rather than problematic. It’s enough to tempt them outside after dinner, when the sky is deep purple and the only light is from the clouded crescent moon and the firepit behind the cabin. Tiny, almost invisible flakes land in their hair and on their coats, linger for mere seconds, then melt away. The sky isn’t clear enough to watch the stars, but Ben is more interested in watching Rey anyway. She’s just sipping a mug of hot chocolate, eyes scanning the quiet treeline. Her solemn expression is one of contentment.

“I have to admit,” she says, “I wasn’t quite sold on the whole idea of winter camping when you told me about it back in . . .” She trails off, thumbing some cocoa residue from her bottom lip. “God, when was that? In your truck.”

“August.” 

He could never forget that night. He knows this, because for a while he tried really hard to do so. It’s been a long time since he gave that effort up, but for a moment he’s embarrassed by how quickly he can recall it. 

Rey’s eyes narrow, and she looks at him keenly. “You do remember.”

“That was a test?”

“Maybe.” 

She averts her gaze and tucks her wool-stockinged feet up onto the bench they’re sharing.

“I remember a few other things,” he tells her, tone teasing. “Like, you said camping in the winter sounded  _ lovely _ .”

“I said ‘lovely,’ but in that particular instance ‘lovely’ meant ‘rather dull’.”

He’s a little offended, which is ridiculous. “Didn’t think it was your habit to sugarcoat.”

“It’s not. I wasn’t thinking too clearly that night.” She shrugs, and her mouth curves into a smirk. “Anyway, you were right. It’s peaceful here.  _ Lovely _ . I get it. And I’m glad you asked me to come with you.”

“So am I.”

Rey sighs and scoots closer until he draws an arm over her shoulders. Her leg bounces against his. She does that in bed sometimes too, after sex or even when they’re just lounging. Still one moment, fidgeting the next. It’s annoying and endearing by turns, and he runs his hand over her thigh until she slows. 

“I tried it once about four years ago, in the summer.” She takes another long sip of chocolate. “We lasted one night and spent the rest of the trip in a youth hostel with vending machine snacks, dodgy takeaway, a telly that only played Monty Python reruns, and five very friendly German holiday makers.”

“We?” 

Goddammit. He could home in on  _ any _ of those details to ask about. Her voice when she speaks of the memory is warm and mellow, and he can tell that despite the pitfalls it makes her happy to recall it. But he chooses the one detail that makes him sound jealous. It hasn’t escaped Rey, either, though she just chuckles. 

“Yes,  _ we _ . Wasn’t my idea to cart ourselves out to Kingsdown with a tent and camp stove and hope for the best—that was all Finn.”

“Oh.” 

Ben knows that name. She’s often talked about Finn, her best friend in London, whether in confession or in half-formed anecdotes in moments of more casual conversation. Yet she always seems protective of that, and he’s formed the impression that there is more to their friendship than she’s let him know. 

“This is getting to be a habit for you. Being dragged along on camping excursions.”

“I don’t get dragged along on anything,” she says with a wry smile. She drains her mug and leans forward to set it on the ground beside his, then pulls his arm more tightly around her, clutching his chilled hand between hers. “The company’s always too tempting, you see.”

“So what happened that led to the hostel?”

“Well, it started pouring. And it didn’t stop. And the campgrounds turned into a practical bog. It was either the hostel about an hour down the road, or find ourselves neck-deep in mud. Literally—our tent was sinking by morning, and there were mosquitoes everywhere. It was awful.” She grins so wide she needs to bite her lip to stop it. “It could’ve been a disaster, but Finn always makes things worthwhile. We both realized we might not be cut out for the outdoorsy life. Still made a good team, though. I figured he was someone I ought to hold on to, and I guess he felt the same, because he’s put up with me all this time.”

“You must miss him.”

“Of course I do. He’s hoping to visit this summer, though.”

Ben watches the fire flicker, and a little fire flickers inside him, too. He second-guesses himself, then asks anyway in a measured tone. “Did you two ever . . .?”

“Ever what?” She figures it out a moment later, though, and purses her lips. “Oh. Well. You really want to know?”

“You do realize that asking me that sort of sounds like a ‘yes’, right?”

Rey rolls her eyes, though it’s good-natured enough, even when Ben's hand tightens around hers. “Yes, then. A few times. If I was having a tough time with a heat, if I couldn’t bear to be alone and I wasn’t . . . with anyone, he would help me out.”

“Is he an Alpha?” 

She shakes her head. “Beta. That was part of it too. I knew he wouldn’t let things go too far. He wouldn’t get possessive. It wouldn’t change the way he saw me. It was just a thing we did together a handful of times, because we’re friends and friends help each other.” 

“That badger you have,” he says, suddenly making an uncomfortable months-old connection. “When you nested, you had a plush badger. It smelled like . . . someone.”

“That’s from him.”

“You never thought there might be more to it?”

“More to what? A stuffed animal?”

“No, to this arrangement you had. With Finn.”

Ben imagines it despite himself. Rey, redolent and radiant in her heat, and this faceless Finn spending a weekend with her, sharing meals, watching Netflix, and fucking her when she needs it most. Feelings developing. Feelings that might return if Finn were to visit. It makes Ben’s stomach turn and his skin prickle with undirected resentment. It makes him want to pick her up, lay her down in the snow, and take her just to remind them both she’s his now. He settles to bite his tongue, and the nails of his free hand dig into his palm. 

He wishes he could let it go. He’s been back down to his normal level of suppressants for a few weeks, and it’s been manageable. He has his own history, and of course he knows how it is for her. Part of him is glad Rey had someone she trusted and cared for when she needed it. Yet he notices the difference in himself with her around so constantly. She provokes all the urges he used to have little trouble wrestling into submission. He feels more possessive of her than ever, which is something he still begrudges—she’s not his. She can’t be. 

Protective, then. He wants to keep her safe and close, and he wants her to want to be his. 

She’ll notice it. She’ll smell it in the air between them, she’ll feel it in the way his arm has tensed around her, she’ll hear it in the low, almost petulant growl of his voice. It’s something he thinks must put her off. Frankly, it might be better if it did. 

She just looks at him and lifts her eyebrows.

“Think of the other people you’ve been with, Ben. Any of them.”

“Why?”

He can’t think of a reason he’d want to. Why those people should matter to him at all when he has Rey, right here, tucked up against him, warm and beautiful and perfect and, yes,  _ his _ . Compared to that, even his vows feel like an afterthought. They are an afterthought.

It hits him: that’s why.

“I think you get it.” She leans forward to kiss him. When she pulls away, it’s only to press her lips to his neck and rest her head on his shoulder, her breath hot on his skin. It sounds as if she’s telling him a secret. “This, with you, is different. To me.”

Oh, but he knew that already, back in December while he was standing half-naked in her living room having an existential crisis and realized that if he had to choose in that moment, she might win. That suspicion has never left him. It’s stronger than ever, and he feels like he’s being split in two. 

“I know that doesn’t help things,” she continues. “But I wanted you to know. I wanted to say it.”

He wraps his other arm around her and turns his body to hers, shielding her from the snowfall and pulling her against his chest. “Say what?”

“That . . .”

She curls into him and falters. Rey always speaks her mind, so her hesitance is alarming. He thinks he knows what it means. Her scent is potent even under the tang of smoke and burning wood, and the way she makes herself smaller in his embrace, like she can’t be held tightly enough, stirs something in him. It makes him reckless, and foolish, and utterly unable to stop himself from saying it first.

“I love you.”

Ben has wondered what it might be like to say this to her. He imagined something more monumental. The sensation of everything he has been for the last ten years shattering inside him. A wave of smothering guilt and shame. Horror or regret. A compulsion to repent. A desire to take it back.

Maybe a good old-fashioned smiting—lightning, fire, brimstone, great floods, pillars of salt, gnashing of teeth.

But the night is still, and to Ben’s surprise, his anxieties are still as well. He feels fine. What he’s just said feels right. A tremor passes through Rey as the words settle. He hears her breathe deep, and the same breath expelled long and slow through her mouth. The moment stretches. He doesn’t want to take it back. He wants to say it again, as many times as she will let him.

He’s not expecting a short, nervous laugh to burst from her lips and land against his. “God, you really just said that, didn’t you?” she asks.

It’s difficult to know how to respond to that. His first thought is that he must have misinterpreted where she was going with this; his second is that he doesn’t care if he has. Ben tightens his arms around her and nuzzles her neck, pushing her hair aside with his hand to press his mouth to her scent gland. This close, out in the cold, her smell is sharper and cleaner, bright as starlight, and her skin tastes like woodsmoke. She shifts, and her voice is right in his ear.

“Could you say it again?”

“Say what again?”

Rey is silent for a few seconds, and he thinks she must be smiling when she says, “‘I love you.’”

“Do you?”

“Smartass.” She snickers and pushes him playfully, extracting herself just enough from his grasp to sit back and look him in the face. It’s impossible to read any one emotion in her expression. “Yes. But . . .”

“But?”

The moment was nice while it lasted—which was longer than he expected, really. 

“But when we go back, does it mean anything?”

“I can’t think about that right now.” He’s spoken too sharply, and it isn’t fair to her, so he reaches up to caress her face in apology. Even if she’s right, he’s been doing pretty well not thinking about later for once. Yet the damage is done, and he tries to sound less like he’s blowing her off, though his voice is still so hard it nearly shakes. “Of course it means something. I know I shouldn’t have said it. And if I was sorry for it, I’d apologize, but I’m not.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry for it.”

“Well then what do you want? I thought you were trying to say it too.” 

“I  _ was _ , Ben. Maybe. Shit.” She winces and shakes her head, her gaze dropping again. “I do love you. I think I have for a while, and this week’s been . . . clarifying. It’s not something I’d say if I didn’t feel certain. But it doesn’t change your situation, or mine.”

There’s pain in the way her mouth tightens, and he has the ridiculous impulse to kiss it away. But if physical gestures of devotion were enough to eliminate every complication between them, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. Ben would put it off longer it he could. Except now he starts to understand—he’s not the only one whose conscience is heavy. The fears he entertained days ago were more prescient than he knew. Rey is already hurting. 

“You feel guilty about this.” He has to lift her chin with his thumb to get her to look him in the eye. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was just me.”

How stupid and selfish that sounds. He’s almost embarrassed to hear himself say it. Of course he wasn’t the only one.

“It’s a more recent development,” she says. “Which I know sounds awful. This was just sort of weird and fun for a while. It was like . . .” Her nose crinkles. “I feel like an arse admitting it, but it was like this ridiculous power fantasy come to life. That you wanted me and you couldn’t have me even if you  _ should _ have been able to have me.”

Though his mood has soured, Ben laughs anyway. He always suspected there was an element like that at play with her, and though she sounds contrite, he can tell she sees something darkly humorous about it in hindsight. 

“But I’ve started to, yeah. Lately.” She tips her head back and expels a loud sigh, her breath fogging the air above her chin. “Mostly because it’s settled on me that this isn’t just for fun, and it could really fuck you up.”

“It already has been.”

“Exactly. All year, right?”

“Yes.”

Rey folds her legs up onto the bench and scoots around to face him, then winds her fingers through his again. “It’s taken us almost a year to get here. To  _ this _ point. To admitting there’s something happening. To saying . . . those things.” 

“Things neither of us would say lightly.”

Things it seems neither of them wants to verbalize again, even if they are true.

“Right. It should feel like a beginning, right?” Her head tilts, and he nods. “And instead—”

“We’re going home tomorrow and it’s going to be back to what it was.”  
Waiting an undetermined stretch of months before they have another chance to sneak off, maybe. Or else getting reckless, being together when they can, trying to hide it. That wouldn’t last. How long before she has another heat? Does he really think he’d be able to turn her away if she asked him to come to her again? He’d be at her door in a heartbeat. He’d probably leave in the middle of a Mass if it came to it.

“One of us needs to make a decision. It can’t keep going like this. If it does we’ll just . . . we’ll resent each other, eventually,” says Rey. She doesn’t seem to relish the idea very much, and she’s staring at him, looking for confirmation. Or maybe she wants him to fight her on it. “I know you have more to lose. But I need to protect myself too. And I want to figure this out if we can, but if not—”

“Now?” he interrupts. Rey frowns. “Do we need to decide right now?”

“I— No. I’d rather enjoy tonight. It’s the last.”

He hates how she says that with such finality, like they’ve already decided this is it, the last of the last. If he lets himself think like that, he’ll only spend the rest of the night—and the morning, and the drive back to Rey’s house—angry. He’d prefer not to. If nothing else, he’s enough in control of himself to stave that off. 

“When we get back, then.” Ben squeezes her hand and dips his head to catch her eye. “Right?”

“Right.”

“And until then, we enjoy this.” 

It should be one of those things that’s easier to say than put into practice, but all Rey does in response is curl her fingers into the front of his coat and pull herself forward to kiss him. Her lips connect with his hard enough to bump him against the back of the bench and knock the wind out of him. There’s a lot in that kiss—he gets the sense she’s wondering what it would be like to claim him. She’s crawled halfway into his lap by the time she lets up to take a breath, and she’s still clinging to him, one hand wound into his coat while the other settles at the side of his neck, hidden beneath his hair. Her nails keep digging into his skin, but it feels necessary.

Despite his earlier idea about laying her out beneath him in the snow and having his way with her, it loses its appeal when he’s faced with the actual possibility of it. Cold, hard, wet ground might not be much of a deterrent in a rut, but he’d rather that not be one of the defining experiences of this trip after he and Rey have spent several days of learning each other’s bodies and desires on their own terms. 

He doesn’t think he would  _ enjoy _ that. No. 

“Hold still.”

One arm behind her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, Ben steadies her body against his and pushes himself to his feet. He’s careful not to slip on the half-melted powder of snow that has settled around them as he carries her inside. Technically, they should douse the fire, but he’s willing to assume it will fizzle out on its own. Already he’s half-forgotten it. Carrying Rey around like this, even just to the bed, fulfills a need he forgot he had. He’s done it before, he remembers. But he’s more himself right now, and it is still very satisfying to move Rey and know she’s letting him put her where he wants her to be, because she wants to be there too.

Neither of them is even out of their coats before she pulls him down to the mattress with her, but soon enough, layers of winter clothing are strewn across the bed and floor. He pulls his shirt off as she wiggles out of her jeans, and then Rey’s hands are everywhere, sweeping over his skin, searching for more. Beneath him, her body feels frantic and shaky, her demeanor almost angry. He knows how she works now, though. He knows that when she’s sad, she rarely lets herself show it. And this right now, this grasping, grabbing, gripping thing she’s doing, is her trying to find an outlet for an emotion she’s taught herself is useless and a feeling that makes her weak. 

It annoys him that she would feel that way right now. He wants her to feel safe. He’s compelled to provide a solution. But her problem isn’t a heat—it’s deeper than that, emotional, personal, delicate—and the fix is far less straightforward. Still, he’ll be damned if he’s not going to try. If she needs to work something through, he’d rather she take it out on him than let it bubble over tomorrow. 

“What do you want?” he asks. Rey hesitates. Her hand is caught roughly in his hair. He curves a palm against her cheek, strokes the scent gland beneath her ear the way he knows will settle her, and tries again. “Tell me, and tonight it’s yours.”

It is exactly the sort of unrealistic, overzealous assurance an Alpha would make. There are things he can’t do for her, tonight or ever. He hopes she won’t begrudge it of him.

“Say it again.” She’s pushing him off her so that she can sit up and whip her thermal shirt off. “You didn’t say it again. Before.”

She isn’t wearing a bra underneath, and as she reaches for the button of his jeans he caresses her pert breasts, draws his fingers around her rosy nipples until they’re stiff peaks he can’t wait to close his lips around. Rey shivers and shuffles closer, stripped to a pair of cotton briefs as her thighs part for him. His hand drifts down her stomach and rubs her through the damp fabric between her legs. 

Her eyes haven’t left his. She gets his fly down, shoves her hand inside his jeans, and cups him in one hand. 

“I want to hear it, Ben.”

This time he won’t tease her. He won’t dance around it or trick her into speaking the three words she wants to hear. This, he can give her. So he says it, again and again, until she has other uses for his mouth and no need for words at all.

  
  


Later that night, Ben is still awake. He’s tempted to roll over to grope around in the dark for his phone to see what time it is, but that would require letting go of Rey and possibly waking her up. After a few hours of sex and idle, harmless chatter, she’s finally settled down beside him and hasn’t let go since. Even with several days of this routine behind them, he still finds himself surprised by how clingy she is afterward. It makes sense to him, but it’s difficult to reconcile the woman she is in every other situation with the woman she becomes in their most intimate moments together. 

He remembers what she said to him in the woods, months ago, after the race. ‘ _ I feel quite safe with you. I trust you. I’ve been vulnerable with you and you’ve never used that power to hurt me.’  _ It’s ridiculous that  _ now _ is the moment he realizes what she was trying to say to him even then. That she would let this happen, if he wanted it to.

He has no complaints. This is exactly where he wants her, and where he wants to be.

Ben cranes his neck and squints, still trying to spot his phone on the nightstand. It’s just within reach, he thinks, but as he lifts his arm and begins to twist his torso to grab it, Rey’s light, intermittent snores stutter. A moment later she gives a sleepy huff of frustration and scoots nearer. He’s shocked she can get any closer than she already is. For the last hour or so she’s been tucked under his arm, her face pressed against his chest, one of her legs hooked through his. She fits alongside him perfectly, and in sleep she feels soft and fragile, like something he’s been trusted with the care of.

And she’d probably hate to know he’s thought of her that way. He gives what he thinks is a quiet snort of derision and gives up on the phone. He doesn’t need it anyway. It doesn’t matter what time it is. It’s nighttime. It’s dark. She’s beside him. That’s all that should matter.

Rey’s chin bumps his sternum as she tips her head back. “What?” 

Her voice is low, thick and sweet as honey, and the sound stirs him just enough that he’s tempted to see if she wants one last round. The bed’s a mess anyway, and so are they—and it’s not out of the question that they’ll fool around again in the morning to stave off the inevitable. But he can tell she’s in that weird place between waking and sleeping, where anything she says to him now may as well have been said in a dream. He’d rather not pull her out of it just because he can’t seem to nod off.

So he doesn’t try to rouse her; he doesn’t answer her at all. He just smooths her hair back from her face and nuzzles her temple until she yawns and mumbles something else. This time it’s impossible not to respond. 

“Hm?”

“M’not good at giving things up,” she says again, words barely more intelligible. 

He decides to humor her. “I know. Neither am I.”

“‘nd I don’t wanna give this up.”

“Don’t worry.”  _ She won’t remember this conversation _ , he reminds himself. “You don’t have to. Go back to sleep.”

She scoffs and pecks sloppily at his pectoral, then slurs something like, “ _ Yamsleep _ ”

“Sure you are.”

She doesn’t reply this time, and her breathing is even again in the next instant. Soon the room is so quiet he can hear an owl hooting outside and the slight rattle of one of the windows when the wind picks up. None of it really helps lull him, and he envies the ease with which Rey has slipped off again. He  _ should _ be tired, but his brain won’t stop fixating on the fact that by this time tomorrow, he’ll have done exactly what Rey doesn’t want to: he’ll have given this up, because one of them has to.

The timing is fortuitously ironic, though, isn’t it? A few days after they get back, Lent begins. The season of repentance, self-denial, penance and prayer, sacrifice and doing without. Giving up. It gives him the tiniest inkling that he might be able to make something of this after all and give himself—and Rey—just a little longer to figure out how to proceed. There are some compelling reasons to wait just a little longer. It’s not his conscience telling him that, but it’s a voice he no longer abhors so much. 

The same voice also reminds him Rey will be due for another heat sooner or later. That it would doubtless drive him into a rut. That there are certain actions a pair might agree to take in that situation, actions he was too much of a coward to follow through with last time . . .

He carefully rolls onto his back and stares at the shadow-black ceiling as Rey’s hand settles on his abdomen. Probably, he should put this idea aside until he’s not tired and keyed up on sex and anxiety. He can straighten it out on the ride home tomorrow, then see what she thinks—if it still seems like a good idea at all by then. Ben tends not to make his best decisions at night, and it’s hers as much as his. They’ll be together in that, at least.

  
  


They pull up outside her house in the middle of the afternoon, and there’s a brief, awkward span of seconds where he forces himself to wait and see what she does. Instinct tells him to shut the truck off, help her with her bag (though she only has one, so that seems like overkill), and walk her to the door. They’ve talked a lot over the three-hour drive, but none of it pertained to the future and whether it’s feasible they might have one together. 

Rey is studying him from the passenger seat. The sound of her seat belt unbuckling sounds too loud. 

“Why don’t you come in for a bit? Stretch your legs. I’ll make some coffee.”

They both know the church is barely more than ten minutes away, and he can survive until then without stretching his limbs or consuming caffeine. He shuts the truck off anyway, because it’s not really about any of that.

“You need any help with your duffel?”

Rey quirks a skeptical brow and chuckles as she opens the door and hops out. “No, I can manage. Thanks, though.”

While he waits for her to dig her house key out of her purse, he glances around. It’s strange to be standing outside her house in broad daylight. He’s only ever been here at night. When he left after her heat, it was almost dark, and when he picked her up the morning they left, she was already at the curb when he arrived. The thought that anyone might drive by, see him here, and  _ recognize  _ him—he’s trying to remember if any parishioners have mentioned living in this neighborhood, as if it isn’t far too late to start worrying about that—is not a pleasant one. He wishes she would hurry up and open the door, and keeps the urge to snipe at her at bay.

“If you want, you can take a shower,” Rey mutters as she finally finds the key and unlocks the door. “Use the same blockers as last time and all. I assume no one noticed anything?”

Ben follows her inside and makes his way to the couch as she locks up. It’s nice to see the place looking orderly and normal. Not like the last time he was here. That time, before he departed for the rectory, he’d taken a long shower and scrubbed himself raw with blocker-infused shower gel until his skin was pink. Even though she’d been sad to see him go before she was quite ready to be without him, Rey found it very amusing. And indeed, no one noticed anything amiss when he got back to the rectory after his supposed car-trouble ordeal.

It wouldn’t be the worst idea to do it again. They both showered before leaving the cabin, but he’s been in close quarters with her for hours since. He left an extra set of clothing in his truck all week for the same purpose, and he doubts she has any ulterior motives. Being away together was like leaving the reality of this behind. Now that they’re back, it’s time to take it seriously.

“Sure. Should we talk before or after?”

“Um.” Rey frowns and fiddles with her keys, then hangs them up and makes her way toward the kitchen. “I was thinking after, if it’s all right with you.”

“That’s fine.”

“Go do what you need to do. I’ll get the coffee on.”

He’s quick about it, and when he returns to the living room Rey is already seated on the couch, sipping from her mug and watching a nature program. There’s a carafe and an empty mug waiting for him on the coffee table. The scene is so domestic and lived-in, so representative of what  _ could be _ , his stomach hurts. 

Ben drops down beside her and pours himself some coffee as she switches the TV off.

“Can you check me?”

Her eyes dart over him uncertainly, but she leans closer and brings her face near his neck. She breathes deep and slow a few times, then takes one of his arms in her hands and lifts his wrist to her nose. After a few moments she nods and moves back to the other end of the couch with her mug in hand and takes a long sip.

“You’re fine,” she says as she swallows. “You barely smell like yourself. Definitely not like me.”

“Good.”

“I hate it.”

“Yeah, me too.” He considers having some coffee, but his stomach is still roiling and he knows it won’t help. Might as well get to it. “About what we said last night. I was thinking a lot after you fell asleep. And on the ride home today.” 

“You did look a bit tired this morning.” She gives him a sullen smile. “Might’ve flattered myself thinking I wore you out.”

He allows himself a short laugh, thinking of how he woke to her hands warm on his skin and her lips pressing small kisses below his ear. He stops himself from thinking of the rest. Suffice it to say, despite their intention to leave at nine in the morning, they didn’t hit the road until half past noon.

“That too.”

“Can I say something first?” 

When he just nods, she moves a little closer, puts her mug back on the table, and folds her hands in her lap. Despite her somewhat rumpled appearance, Rey looks perfectly composed, just the way she did the first time he laid eyes on her. 

“This needs to be your choice in the end. And I’ll stand by it, whatever it is, because . . .” She frowns and swallows, and her gaze falters for only a moment. “Because you’re my Alpha. I really feel that.”

Hearing her call him  _ her Alpha  _ heats his whole body. Not arousal, exactly, but certainly a rush of adrenaline. He imagines it’s how he’d feel if he just won a fight—satisfaction, pride, triumph, like he’s swallowed the sun and she can’t help but orbit him. 

“But you can’t have both. Not like this,” she adds. “I’m not going to be with you at the cost of watching you lie and hide and guilt yourself until you’re torn apart. So . . . so if you can’t fathom upending your life over this even more, or risk marking me the next time I’m in heat and finding out I’m . . .  _ meant _ for you, or hell, not meant for you, or . . .” 

Rey blinks rapidly, and it’s strange to watch, because she doesn’t sound like she’s about to cry, and her eyes are dry, not even shiny with unshed tears. Her scent, though, has turned. Not rotten exactly, but there’s a tang to it that isn’t usually present. Her subtle, dry sweetness is unpleasantly syrupy. He can almost feel it, tacky on his skin, oozing down his throat.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” She takes a deep breath and looks at him again. “And I’m yours, Ben. If you want me. If you choose me.”

“Rey—” 

“But I need to be done with  _ this _ . I’m saying that if you need to give me up, I understand. I’ll give you up too. It’s your choice, though, because it’s your life that changes, not mine.”

She goes quiet and fidgets, at a loss for what to do until she grabs the carafe and refills her mug, then looks at his—still empty—and fills that as well. It almost sloshes over the brim. Though Ben hates seeing Rey in distress, her frantic energy and the outpouring of her thoughts make him feel more centered. He has to be, because her own composure is cracking and one of them has to stay in control. That’s what he’s here to do when she can’t handle it alone.

“We tried this before,” he says once she’s settled. 

“Yes. And you were the one who called.”

“I asked first.”

“But you  _ asked _ ,” Rey reminds him. “If we’re serious this time, you can’t do that again. I can’t either. We need to let it go. We can’t leave cracks. One of us is always going to let the other slip through.”

What she’s asking is nearly impossible, practically speaking. Even if they promise never to see each other again, even if she swears off returning to St. Ailbe’s, even if they delete each other’s numbers, they still live less than fifteen minutes from each other. The odds that chance run-ins won’t happen are low. Their natures will continue to draw them together.

“You’re right. I do need to be the one who decides,” he concedes. “And it needs to be more absolute than before.”

“I know.”

“So, I have a proposal to make.”

Rey’s eyes widen. “Ben . . .”

“Oh, shit.”  _ Word choice, idiot _ . “No, not like— An idea, I mean.” 

“Right. Of course.” Her cheeks have flushed anyway, and she’s barely able to wrangle her small smile. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“It’s a big decision. I’ve been avoiding it for too long. Since December, maybe earlier if I’m being honest. And I want to make it when I’m thinking clearly, when I’ve had time to . . . contemplate. Pray. Discern.” Ben is watching her face, trying to catch any shift in her expression or body language, any development in her scent. She’s a blank slate, still as stone, listening intently but impassively. He thinks that must be a good thing. “I know that probably doesn’t mean much to you, but—”

“I may not be big on praying,” she interrupts with a wry smirk, “but I understand that it’s important to ‘contemplate,’ Ben. And I understand that it means reevaluating the last decade of your life. I get it.”

Ben nods and bites his tongue, feeling like an asshole for making it sound as if he doubts her grasp of the situation. “What I’m trying to say is I haven’t treated this with the weight it deserves, because I’ve been too busy fooling myself into thinking I could somehow avoid . . . this. I need to give something up, though. Like you said. I’m asking for a little more time to determine what it needs to be.”

Rey narrows her eyes. “How long?”

“Forty days.”

“Forty days and what? No contact? No interactions?”

“Yes.”

She gives a thoughtful hum. One of her eyebrows lifts. “Are you . . . giving me up for Lent?”

“You know what Lent is?”

“I’ve been Googling things, you know.”

He’s not sure why he’s surprised. Rey seems to absorb information, even the useless kind, and she’s never been afraid to ask him questions—if only to challenge him on the answers. He wonders what else she’s been Googling about his faith. It’s flattering, in a way, to think that she’s wanted to learn more about something that isn’t important to her because it is to him.

“It’s a definitive window,” he says. “And I can’t think of a bigger sacrifice right now than being parted from you.”

She rubs her thumb along her lower lip. “What about that thing you mentioned before? The  _ copula . . . _ ”

“ _ Absolutus _ .” 

Shit. He was hoping she wouldn’t bring it up again, but now she has, and why not? Why hasn’t he? It could be the one solution that would make everything less painful in the end. He was thinking the exact same thing himself twelve hours ago. Except he also rolled right back around to the same conclusion he made the first time they were together, when his teeth were at her neck and he  _ could  _ have . . .

“Rey, it’s so rare. So unlikely.”

“Yes, but it does happen. And there’s no way to tell unless you mark me.”

“Is that what you want? For me to choose you because of some chemical oddity?” Ben frowns. “It wouldn’t make me want you any more or any less. It wouldn’t change the way I feel about you.”

“It would make this easier, though. You wouldn’t  _ have _ to choose. You wouldn’t have to deci—”

“If it doesn’t work, I don’t know if I can bear that disappointment on top of losing you,” he snaps. 

Rey doesn’t even flinch. “And if it does, you don’t have to lose me at all. You don’t have to lose anything.”

“Don’t . . .” He sighs and kneads his temple. This is not how this was supposed to go. They’d been doing all right there, hadn’t they? “When’s your next heat?”

“It’s . . . I’m not sure. I’ve never been very regular to begin with, and throwing you into the mix and fucking with my suppressants has really messed with it, so . . .”

“Right. You’re not in heat. I can’t mark you. I need to work with what we have right now, not near-impossible hypotheticals.”

“For a man of faith, you don’t seem to have very much in this.”

He doesn’t have the emotional energy to be annoyed with her for twisting his mentality around like that. And when he gives it a little more thought, he doesn’t think she’s trying to weaponize it at all. She’s making a fair point.

“Take your forty days,” she says after a few moments. “I could use them myself. You know where to find me when you’ve decided what you want.”

They finish their coffee in silence—it’s not strained, but it’s not companionable either. It is obvious she’s as deep in thought as he is and dreading the first few hours without him. When they’re done Ben helps her take their mugs to the kitchen, and then he grabs his things and heads for the door. There’s really not much else they can say to each other that hasn’t already been said. The rest is yet to be seen.

Rey grabs his wrist anyway, just as he’s opening the door. She gives it a light squeeze and smiles up at him when he looks back at her. “Thank you for this week. Really, it was . . . it was perfect.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“See you in a few weeks, Ben.”

He can’t bring himself to smile back, but he ducks forward to press a light kiss to the top of her head. If this is the last time he’ll touch her, he wants it to be with affection. 

“A few weeks.”


	10. The Absence and the Pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for your patience! While this was originally going to be the tenth and final chapter, once I started writing it and realized how much I still had to fit in ... we were going to end up with a very massive chapter. So I decided to chop it up to keep the reading load more manageable and, frankly, keep things from feeling crammed in to one chapter when they'd work better as two. So this week we're giving Rey and Ben some time to start gaining some perspective in their own ways before coming together (hur. hur. hur.) again in the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and for your feedback and comments! <3

For the fifth morning in a row, Ben wakes up on the floor of the chapel. As he pushes himself up to sit, his back is stiff and the right side of his face aches from being pressed into the thin carpet for hours. The flood lights from the church lawn shine in through the stained glass and cast the room in a garish glow. He guesses it must be about four in the morning, but there are no clocks in here and he left his phone in his bedroom, so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t help that it's only been a few days since they turned the clocks forward an hour. Maybe in another few mornings he’ll get used to this, but this one isn’t it.

Seems fitting—nothing’s felt right in weeks. The only time he feels even slightly normal is in here. It’s quiet. He’s in the presence of something pure and real, something that makes him feel . . . if not always peace, security. He’s in control of himself here; his mind is quiet, his desires easier to see for the fleeting things they are.

Yet that no longer feels like enough. Not for the first time, Ben wonders if he has been doing this wrong for years and if it’s too late to figure out what’s right. It's a selfish thing to wonder, isn't it? He should be past questioning it. He was supposed to be praying for guidance. 

It’s what led him here a few hours ago, when he was in bed, unable to sleep and fighting the compulsion to think of Rey. Not even fantasizing—just thinking of her. It would have been so, so easy to conjure a memory or a scene so vivid it might as well be a memory. The scatter of freckles on her cheeks; the soft curve of her hips; the smooth, fragrant warmth of her skin; the mellow music of her voice; the distant way she has of studying him; her scent. Heliotrope, sunbaked earth, green, alive, her. It would be easy to imagine her as she is, or in any number of futures he could want for them to have together.

And that would be cheating. It would be wrong. He's not meant to see her; that includes, he has decided, in his mind's eye. Ben is to conduct himself as he did before he knew Rey Stafford even existed . . . while also trying to decide if she's worth upending the life he has very meticulously built for nearly a decade.

He must think of her, then—but as an option. Rey is a branching path. He does not allow himself to fixate on what she might be doing from one moment to the next, if she has changed her mind about him, if she thinks of him at all. 

Predictably, it has been far more difficult than he expected. And tonight, a night no different than those that have preceded it, his feeble resistance has driven him to prayer, and then to the chapel when even the furnishings of his room become too evocative and the thought of a long midnight shower becomes a near occasion of sin. It's unfortunate that he hasn't woken with the answer laid out before him, like a figure in some parable. There is nothing heavenly or supernatural waiting to tell him he is doing what he should be doing. It's just the small altar, the unlit candles, the solemn Lenten bareness of it all, and the tabernacle that houses the Holy Sacrament he hasn't been truly worthy of handling in months. 

He was never worthy; no one is.

The chapel begins to feel less welcoming, less secure, and though Ben knows it's only his own thoughts and emotions getting the better of his sleep-addled brain, he is filled with the urge to leave. He could go for a run. It's probably about that time anyway, and he can no longer abide being still. 

He genuflects and rises, apologizing quietly to the room or himself or God, and hastily exits the church, frustrated with himself and his humiliating, persistent uncertainty. The weather is on the cold side of brisk, the sky clear and fathomless, and his breath fogs in his face as he walks. By the time he has crossed the parking lot and is unlocking the front door of the rectory, he’s awake and aware enough to think this has to stop. It's been sixteen days, which is barely a dent in forty. Yet he feels no closer to an answer than he was when he stepped out of Rey's house and heard her lock the door as he walked grimly back to his truck. 

He closes the rectory door behind him and is shrugging his coat off when he notices there’s a light on in the common area. The room was dark and empty when he slipped away hours ago. Still half out of his coat, Ben wanders closer to investigate and peers around the doorframe.

As he suspected, Monsignor Canady is seated in one of the armchairs, feet propped on the ottoman, a mug of tea on the end table. He has his nose in a magazine, but his eyes are on Ben. He looks like he must have been up for a while, for his expression is alert and inquiring.

"Ah, Ben. Good morning. I wondered if you'd come back before sunrise this time."

Though Ben's first instinct is to mutter a half-assed greeting and excuse himself— _ just some Lenten devotions, Mo, nothing to bother yourself with, gonna go shut my eyes for an hour or so _ —another inkling tells him to stay.

"I fell asleep in the chapel," he says, opting for vague honesty. "Decided I might as well go for a run, now it's . . ." He squints at the old clock on the mantle. "Almost four-thirty."

"Five-thirty," Canady corrects with a gruff chuckle as he casts his magazine aside and regards Ben with a steely look. "Haven’t changed that clock yet."

Damn. Here Ben thought he might get an early start on his usual morning routine, but he's already a half hour behind. He grimaces and walks further into the room, takes the clock from its place, opens the back, and pointedly winds the hour hand forward. 

"I'm never one to discourage a man from his private prayer rituals, especially during Lent," Canady observes as Ben closes the clock back up and sets it down. "But I might suggest a bit of caution on your part when it comes to this new routine of yours."

"Oh?"

"Would hate for someone to walk into the chapel for morning prayer and be greeted by the sight of one of their priests sprawled facedown on the floor. I myself spied you on Monday morning and thought I might have to call an ambulance before I heard the snoring." Canady chuckles again, like the memory of panic amuses him. “Now,  _ I _ don’t mind one bit, but try to understand, parishioners like to gossip.”

"I'll find a better place.”

"Not sure you'll find a better one than that. Unless there's something you need other than a quiet spot to pray."

In a moment of hesitation, Ben eyes the hallway that leads up toward the bedrooms and bathroom. He could still go for that run and forget he and Canady had this encounter—except he's now positive Canady was waiting for him. He can practically smell the man's ulterior motive.

"Are you busy?" 

"Depends on if you’re asking for something."

Ben grits his teeth. Canady knows he hates asking for favors, and after nearly two years, the man still delights in any excuse to humble Ben in tiny ways. Those are usually the worst.

"I could use an ear," he says after considering the least painful way to make his request. "Can we talk?"

"Of course." Canady looks fleetingly pleased in a way that makes Ben desperate to reassert himself. The older man gets to his feet and wanders off toward the kitchen with his mug in hand. “Give me a moment to refresh this. Shall I get you a cup?"

“I’ll get my own. I need something stronger.”

It's another fifteen minutes before they're seated again, this time in Canady's own office. The man has a penchant for nautical-themed decor, and the room always reminds Ben absurdly of a sea captain's quarters from one of those old adventure novels. Ben's mug of black coffee rests between a bottle containing a tiny model ship suspended as if at the crest of a wave, and a desk lamp shaped like a coiled pile of rough-hewn rope that lights the room in dim, pleasant orange. Everything smells of teak, tobacco, and aftershave.

"So. What's troubling you?"

Ben ponders a number of things he could say to obfuscate the truth of his problem. He could put himself out of his misery now, weeks early, before he's had the chance to see his labor through. It’s little easier to deny the urge now than it was back in December.

"If I were to—" He pauses and glances around the room. His eyes settle on an anchor-shaped paperweight atop a pile of old parish bulletins before he looks back to Canady. "How do you deal with doubt?"

"Doubt?" Canady's expression becomes thoughtful, and he settles back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. "That depends on what sort. If you mean a crisis of faith, then—"

"No. Nothing like that." It's not exactly like that, anyway. Ben isn't questioning his belief in God. He's questioning his belief in himself. "When it comes to vocation. What a person's meant to do when they think they've answered one call but find themselves . . . wondering if it was a call after all. If they've made a mistake. How to combat that feeling." 

"I would say one should pray on it, but I can see that you've already been doing so.” Canady pauses for a sip of tea, then chuckles quietly. “I'm sure that the last thing you want to hear right now is that one way to address it is just to keep on doing what you've been doing." 

"Isn't it?"

“It can be. But I’d recommend getting a good night’s sleep first. Not on a floor.” 

He speaks in his usual brusque, matter-of-fact way. It’s one of those moments when he starts to remind Ben of his own father—the last thing he wants right now. When Ben only stares at him, Canady clears his throat and drops his gaze for a few moments. His chair creaks with age as he shifts.

"How long has it been since you were ordained, Ben?"

"Two years at the end of May."

Two years sounds like nothing at all. He's been on this path far longer, of course; ordination was never a destination. It was the beginning of a life he thought he wanted. He doesn’t  _ not _ want it. 

But it reminds him of why it is difficult for him to trust his feelings for Rey. When he met her, he had been a priest for barely a year. He's known her for little more than a year now. If he was so easily led astray by his feelings for her—if he was so weak for her sake—how can he trust himself not to be led  _ from  _ her in the future? How can he believe he won't be weak enough to break her heart one day?

Canady nods, and Ben has the impression of being seen through even though there is no way the monsignor could know the exact nature of the conflict that plagues him.

"Two years," Canady echoes. "Yes, that sounds about right."

"What does?"

"Very few of us are lucky enough to devote our lives to this work without questioning the decision to do so again and again. Surely you know that."

"I know."

He doesn't say that he thought he'd be one of the lucky ones. The fact that he could have been so naive makes him angrier with himself than he’s been in months.

“Then you know that while it is not a decision one makes lightly, it’s still one that can lead to doubt.” Canady leans back in his chair. "Are you doubting your vocation? Or something else?"

"I’m trying not to."

"That’s a yes, then. And that's normal. It's human. Every single one of us experiences it." Canady sips his tea and regards Ben evenly. “It is not something you can rid yourself of entirely. But if you know the source of your doubt, it becomes easier to make peace with it and trust in the path you’re following.”

“I don’t want to  _ make peace  _ with it. I don’t want to feel it at all.”

“Ah. So you’d rather confront it only if it means you’re able to dominate and eradicate it. Is that right?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s not realistic. Though—and forgive me if this sounds presumptuous—I suppose it’s how you’re wired to handle challenges.”

Ben narrows his eyes and bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

"It means you’re an Alpha in a position that requires a person to regularly debase his own desires and needs for those of the Church and her people. I can think of few situations that would throw someone of your designation more out of his depth. The pressure it puts on you is immense. And yet you’re here. You felt a pull to this life, and you followed knowing what it meant.”

What  _ had _ it meant? So many things, once. Accountability. Absolution. Community. Leadership. Purpose. He couldn't fathom wanting anything more than the sense of order and control this life would finally provide. It was a space where he could lock away the parts of himself he couldn’t face and keep them on the other side of a wall—still there, but easy to quash and ignore most of the time. 

It was all arrogance, a smokescreen for his fear. Because what Ben has always wanted most was not order or control. Not only those things. He's wanted to belong to something and be accepted as he is, rather than ignored or used or curbed. In all the places he looked for  _ that _ , he never found it.

Across the desk, Canady looks at him with a sympathy Ben begrudges. “Your natural drives butt up against much of what’s expected of you here. To struggle with that is nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed.”

“No?” 

“I’m speaking to you about it, aren’t I?”

“Only because you want me to say there’s an easy answer.” Canady’s sits up straighter and folds his hands in front of him, regarding Ben like a teacher tasked a recalcitrant student. "Listen to me. You’ve been an exemplary part of this community. In two years you’ve only twice needed to take leave for a rut. Your focus, dedication, and faith are commendable, as is your willingness to serve as well as lead.  _ But _ —those qualities are not invincible. You can’t simply suppress every aspect of yourself you find distasteful.” 

“No, just the ones the Church does.”

Ben snaps his mouth shut and forces his glare at the wall behind Canady rather than directly at him. He shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t really regret it, though.

“You understand why those laws are in place,” Canady says, still the picture of stolid command. “And, if I recall correctly, they’re also something you’ve long relied on for your own peace of mind and had little complaint of until now.”

The ease with which Canady speaks of these things makes Ben realize that he has likely been expecting to have this discussion at some point—maybe even far sooner than this morning. There’s a reason St. Ailbe’s was chosen as Ben’s first assignment. It’s an old, small parish with few Omegas and Alphas registered as members, and Canady has been the pastor here for almost twenty years. He would have been coached in how to deal with the rarity that Ben represents in the clergy. He’s probably noticed changes in Ben’s behavior all year: the increasing abuse of suppressants, the copious blockers, the peculiar changes in the water bills, the sudden interest in parish social life, the marked shifts in his demeanor before entering—and exiting—the confessional every Saturday evening. 

Suddenly Ben feels as if he’s being chastised specifically for every time he’s violated his vows over the last year and never confessed, for the moments and misdeeds he still carries as secrets known only to himself and Rey. He has been such an idiot. The possibility heats his blood and makes him want to argue. He’s being  _ challenged _ , and Canady has no right. 

Except, he has every right. Didn’t Ben come here asking for help? He bites the tip of his tongue and digs his fingers into his thighs until his nails go white.

“Now,” Canady continues, “you just came back from your yearly retreat a few weeks ago.”

It’s not a question, but he is clearly waiting for Ben to react. In his barely contained frustration, Ben needs a few moments to figure out what Canady is talking about.

His retreat. The camping trip. The one that was meant to be a time to pray and renew his commitments and deepen his faith. The one he used to have Rey all to himself for nearly a week. 

Right. That retreat.

“Yes.” 

He’s positive that saying anything more will incriminate him by some change in manner spurred by his memories of those days, so he leaves it at that and waits. Canady takes his time responding; or perhaps the seconds drag only in Ben’s mind.

“And did you find that it left you with more questions than usual?”

Ben nods mutely.

“Try to step back and look at it this way, then. You’ve been a priest a short time. Perhaps some of the initial zeal has waned. But if you aren’t questioning, it’s probably a sign you’re too complacent. Complacency isn’t good. Part of this life is to be at peace with the fact that it’s a choice you must make again and again. It’s not a suit of armor. Using the idea of a vocation as a catchall to shield yourself from your own shortcomings and difficult decisions will only lead to misery and guilt.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Worry less about the future. Go back to the start. Examine why you felt drawn to this in the first place,” Canady says. “Strip away all the things that serve as barriers to the truth. That’s what this time of year is for—eliminating the distractions, examining yourself, your soul, your relationship with God. Your relationship with the world, too, and the forces there that challenge you.”

“What if I do that and find that I’m still pulled elsewhere?”

Canady narrows his eyes. Perhaps that was too specific. There’s a leap between merely having doubts and suggesting that there is something else. Some _ one _ else. Yet he does not reveal any suspicions or convey a suggestion of judgment.

“Then that might be a time for another sort of talk,” he says instead. “For now, I strongly suggest you get some sleep. Feats of physical denial and bodily deprivation may work for some of the saints and mystics, but for most of us, such serious matters are never well-addressed in a state of exhaustion. Makes it remarkably easy to get in our own way and miss the solutions God wants us to see.” 

Ben wants to laugh. Feats of physical denial and bodily deprivation indeed. Instead, he nods and gets to his feet, untouched mug of coffee in hand. He forces a tight smile.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

It probably sounds ungrateful, and like the exact sort of thing a person says when they have every intention of forgetting what they just heard. But Canady’s words have made an impression; he’s just not sure what sort yet. With luck he might figure it out once he’s put a few miles between himself and the rectory. He’s still restless. He still wants to go.

Canady nods and raises his hand in a brusque wave. “Have a nice run, Ben.”

+

“I just got a new laptop, so I’m still sort of . . . figuring this out, but— it should be— about the same, so—” Rey’s tongue pokes out between her lips as she sits back and cocks her head at the screen. “Can you see me all right?” 

Finn’s face grins back at her. “Yes, I can see you. Would’ve been a shame to witness Rey Stafford, Mother of Robots, laid low by a standard webcam.”

“Ooh, ‘Mother of Robots’—mind if I add that to my resume?” 

He gives an amicable shrug. “Hope that doesn’t mean you’re on the lookout for a new job. It’s barely over a year since you went out there.”

“God, it is, isn’t it?” 

Sometimes it feels like she’s been here a week; other times, it’s as if she arrived years ago. The town feels like home, like the only place she could belong—except for one thing. 

“Though I wouldn’t hate it if you decided Canada’s not for you and came back to London.” Finn’s voice pulls her back from the precipice of self-pity. “We could be flatmates!”

“You and Poe have a falling out?”

“Hah, no. He’s around here somewhere. Probably biding his time for the opportune moment to interrupt.”

“Ooh, lucky me,” she mumbles through a mouthful of crisps. 

“We could all share a place. Bet you’d love that.”

She and Finn’s friend-slash-flatmate-slash-partner-in-crime have a complicated relationship, which is to say she finds him annoying and too extroverted and undeservedly cocky, even for an Alpha, and he never quite seems to get the hint that she isn’t keen on him. Or maybe he knows it and plays it up to bother her. Either way, it used to result in semiregular sniping matches she was happy to leave behind. Poe, she has decided, is one of those people she best tolerates at a distance of approximately one ocean.

Plus, the whole “Alpha-Beta-Omega trio try to share a house” thing sounds like the premise of a really shitty nineties sitcom and a recipe for real-life disaster.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I think I’m here for good. Or at least a while. RESist is still great.” Rey picks at a broken nail and fights a too-telling grin. “Actually, I’ve been dying to tell you—remember that coworker who got the promotion I was after back when I first moved? Devi?”

Finn nods.

“Well, she just got sacked for selling design specs to one of our competitors.” 

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. And guess who’s officially up for that vacancy now?”

His face lights up, and she remembers why she wanted to save the news for a face-to-face chat even though she’s known for weeks. Though she and Finn text and e-mail pretty often, talks like this one are a monthly treat for real catching up and maybe watching a movie together—and for seeing her best friend’s wide, wonderful smile when she shares good news.

“That’s brilliant!” He reaches forward and gives his display a little shake, and Rey imagines he’s grabbing her by the shoulders in excitement. “Well, not the bit about the corporate subterfuge, but  _ you. _ Congratulations.”

“Hmm, no congratulations yet. It sounds like a sure thing, but I don’t want to jinx it.” Her chuckle trails off into a sigh. “Though it would be the sort of good turn I could use right now.” 

“Sounds strangely ominous.”

Rey curses herself. While she had every intention of sharing some other important (but distinctly less happy) news with Finn today, the passive woe-is-me act that’s just slipped out of her was  _ not _ the segue she was hoping to make. Looking for a way to stall as she reclibrates to gather some courage, she takes a long swig of beer and helps herself to another handful of crisps. 

“Would you believe me if I said I’m having something like relationship issues?”

“‘Something like’ relationship issues, or just plain relationship issues?”

Rey rolls her eyes. “The latter, I guess.”

“I’d be skeptical. And a little surprised you haven’t mentioned it before,” says Finn. “Scratch that, I wouldn’t be surprised you hadn’t mentioned it before. You’re a miser about that stuff.”

“I am not.”

She is, and it’s been long enough since she was in anything resembling a relationship at all that she can’t begrudge Finn his surprise. 

“ _ But _ ,” he continues, “I’d also be willing to sit here and let you vent. Only assuming you’re actually having these totally hypothetical relationship issues and not ‘asking for a friend.’”

Despite the fact that Finn is one of the people she trusts most in the world—was, until the last year happened, the only person she trusted that much—Rey has not so much as hinted at what’s been going on between her and Ben. She couldn’t bear to share it, and Ben surely hadn’t told anyone. It was their secret. As long as it was a secret, it wasn’t a  _ thing _ . 

That was the lie she told herself whenever the urge arose to ask for advice or demand that Finn talk sense into her. The problem is, it is most definitely a thing now, and it’s not a thing she’s been able to talk to Ben about, because  _ he’s the thing _ . 

She really wants to tell someone. Needs to tell someone.

God, she misses how easy it used to be to pop over to St. Ailbe’s and spill her guts to Ben. She misses him. It’s been three weeks. Only halfway through. They’ve made it longer than this before, but it hurts a lot more this time. Seeing him again might mean the end.

And now her throat is tight, and Finn is looking worried. 

_ Shit _ . 

“I might need to vent,” she allows.

Finn waits. Rey says nothing. 

“Um.” He clears his throat. “Usually you just do it.”

“Yeah, sure, but . . .” He’s right. Why in the world is this so hard all of a sudden? She clenches her jaw. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I won’t.”

“This is sort of weird. This situation I’m in. With this guy.”

“Ah, so there is a guy.” Finn’s brow contracts. “Okay, that’s progress. Well, what’s the issue?”

“The arrangement’s a bit untraditional.”

“Untraditional? What, is he old enough to be your grandfather?”

Rey snorts and shakes her head. “He’s older, but not enough to raise eyebrows.”

“Convicted felon?”

She pauses at that one and nearly laughs.

“No.”  _ Not really. _

“Barely literate meathead Alpha type?”

“Alpha type, yes,” she confirms with a shallow nod, wondering why she’s putting poor Finn through this guessing game charade, then wrinkles her nose. “Barely literate meathead, no.”

“Ah hah!” He points triumphantly at the screen. “Okay, sure. I remember you saying you were sick of dealing with Alphas and their machismo fuckery, but this isn’t  _ bad _ . You found someone you trust enough to reconsider, that’s all. Though, wait, if he’s treating you badly—”

“No, it’s not that. He’s good to me. Really, really good, but . . . er. He’s a priest?”

“Are you not sure? Why does it sound like you’re asking a question?”

“He’s a priest.”

“Priest.” He says the word like it’s an unfamiliar term. “One of the ones that’s allowed to have sex and date and all though, right?” 

“Er, no. Roman Catholic. Celibate.” She winces until her eyes scrunch shut. “Not-so-celibate, these days.”

When she opens her eyes to gauge Finn’s reaction, she’s greeted by the expression he makes when he’s trying not to laugh at something only questionably funny.

“Holy shit, Rey.”

“Yeah, holy shit.”

“I’m going to need details, because . . . how?  _ Why _ ? I’ve never even seen you near a church, let alone in one.”

“Priests don’t burst into flame if they leave consecrated ground, mate. I could’ve met him anywhere.”

“I know that,” he says. “I’m just having a hard time imagining how this all started.”

“Well. Okay. I  _ did  _ meet him in a confessional.”

Finn nods with exaggerated understanding. “Ah, of course. In a confessional. Just the sort of place I always figured you’d meet a nice bloke.”

“You said you wouldn’t judge.”

“I’m not judging! I’m processing,” he assures her.

It’s easy to believe him. He’s seen her at some of her lowest moments, and usually, this is just what he does—he tries to lighten her mood. She can’t say that part’s working yet, but already she feels better having someone else know. Though it makes her sad that Ben’s probably dealing with the same thing all alone. 

“How long have you two been . . . ah, confessing?”

She presses her lips together and looks away “A year. About. Well—”

“A year? You’ve been shagging a priest for a year and never even hinted that you had something going on? I have to say, I’m impressed.”

“I— The sex didn’t start ‘til December, but we’d danced around it for months. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all.” She stops herself and tries not to look too grim. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to bring it up. And then it seemed too ridiculous. And now . . .”

Her lip trembles, and goddammit, she really didn’t want to cry about this more than she already has, not even in front of Finn, but she feels a tear fight its way out the corner of her eye and begin to trail down her cheek. He gives her time to compose herself.

“Do you still want to talk about it?” 

“Yeah, there’s just . . .” She palms another errant tear from her face and sniffles as the urge to cry passes. “There’s a lot to tell. Or not really a lot. Or . . . fuck, I don’t know.”

It turns out there’s a lot to tell. More than she’s processed until now, because telling someone means ordering it and giving form to the narrative of what she and Ben were a year ago and what they are now. It means thinking about the meaning of every errant word or glance, the significance of each meeting, touch, and smell, the moment things changed between them and became beautifully breakable. ‘A lot’ doesn’t begin to cover it, she realizes. 

And Finn will see it too, because she’s told him nearly everything but the most intimate details—from that first pull she felt while running past St. Ailbe’s a year ago to the sad echo of the same feeling that still wakes her up some nights. She stops speaking and compulsively grabs her beer in an effort to stop the flow of words long enough to let it all sink in.

“Maybe I should have said no when he asked me to go with him,” she says before taking a long pull. “I really should have.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because . . . I wanted to know what it would be like to be with him without it coming down to  _ need.  _ A real choice that had nothing to do with being fucked over by my body at the worst moment possible and all the rut-me-Alpha bullshit that goes with it.” 

She wanted to know it was real. Well, now she knows, and it’s the best and worst thing she’s ever felt. She expels a shaky breath and pulls a hand through her hair.

“I love him. I fell in  _ love _ with him, and now it might be that none of it matters in another few weeks. The more time passes the more I think he’ll probably choose the status quo.”

She’s not at a point where she can be at peace with the possibility, but she swears she’s trying, because she might have to be. If she and Ben go their separate ways, it’ll be agony, but eventually the ache will go away. They’ll both be able to move past it. 

At least, she assumes that will have to be the case, because who could live like this? The alternative—feeling the absence and the pull toward the only person that can fill it—would be too much. 

“You think that’s why he won’t mark you? Even with that loophole thing?”

“It came up at the cabin. We couldn’t have tried it anyway. You don’t do that sort of thing outside a rut,” she reminds him, then growls to herself. “It’s just so frustrating because then at least he might not have to be torn over it.”

“Could be it’s about making a real choice for him. Same as you.”

She’s considered this. Ben said he wants to avoid the pain of realizing that this thing between them isn’t some preordained exception, but she has started to think that the opposite could be just as true. He’s not afraid of disappointment; he’s afraid of letting his biology dictate how they move forward. It’s already directed so many of his decisions. He wants to choose her on his own terms, because he loves her, because he wants her, because she’s worth all the trouble it could cause him—not because he’s an Alpha who’s marked what’s his and sees the scar shining back.

“I think so.” The label on her bottle is peeling, and she smooths the corner with her thumb. “It’s sort of what I’ve always done. I know what I want, and that’s how I make my decisions. Ben’s more used to doing the opposite of what he wants.” 

“Do  _ you  _ want him to?”

“I want him to feel he’s done the right thing. If it would give him a way to have everything—me, and his life, and all of it, and not feel guilty about it—yes. Because I don’t need it, you know? I don’t  _ need  _ a mark. I’ve let myself be marked before, and it feels good, but what’s it really mean? Marks fade.” 

_ Usually. _

Rey bites her lip and tucks her legs up on the couch as she thinks of how Ben has spoken of marking. A sharing of deep, intimate truth between two people who—well, he never finished the sentence, but she knows what he would have said. It was too soon to say it then, even if they both felt it. Now . . .

“But he’s it. To me. I’ve never felt this way before, and it’s terrifying.”

She wishes she could explain to Finn what it’s like. He probably knows, even if it’s different for Betas; he and Rose have been together long enough. That bone-deep certainty of wanting to be with someone, choosing to be with them in spite of anything else . . . that must be similar, right? What does it matter how it started? If she believed in things like fate or destiny, she’d say the pheromones were just an instrument of some higher power that wanted her and Ben to find each other when they did. A sense of perfect belonging. Now that she knows what it is, she can’t fathom sharing that connection with anyone else.

“You love him,” Finn says. 

He’s only echoing her words from a minute or so before, but he speaks with more resolve than she can muster through the threat of tears, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah. It’s basically a relationship, though, what he’s in.” She sniffles and laughs at the analogy. “I’ve read about it. The vows he’s taken, they’re like a marriage. It’s like being claimed. He  _ is  _ claimed, and all I’ve done is insert myself and made it impossible for him to know what he should do. I have this horrible fear that even if he did choose me, I might not ever feel right about it. Like I’d broken him up from something he was meant to be.”

That, with time, he would see it too and start to hate her for it.

“Rey, that’s not what happened at all.”

“It is a little.”

Finn sighs. “I know I haven’t been there, but you’ve told me a lot. I’ve never heard you talk like this about anyone. And if he didn’t feel the same, he would have ended it weeks ago when you gave him the chance. Right?”

He’s right. She knows. It’s the unknown that’s killing her.

“I get why he’d rather wait until we’ve decided for ourselves. ‘Til  _ he’s _ decided, but . . . God, I’ve started getting wedding adverts online,” she says with a bitter laugh, “from all the ridiculous searches I’ve been doing about marking and true bonds.”

The worst was probably when she got one listing potential venues based on her location. St. Ailbe’s was fourth on the list. That one had turned her into a ragey, teary-eyed mess for about ten minutes.

“If it’ll help, I can ask Rose to e-mail you some of the articles she’s been reading this semester,” he says sympathetically. “There’s been some recent studies done in California. Something about . . . erm.” He waves a hand. “Enzymes or something. Protein synthesis?”

“Thanks, but I’ve mostly been after information on the religious slant.”

What she’s found hasn’t been encouraging. There’s been only four cases of  _ copula absolutus _ recognized and accepted by the Catholic Church since it became a thing in the 1960s, and in all but one, the priest was bonded or married prior to ordination. In the case where the bond was realized afterward—a case that is far too reminiscent of Ben’s—he eventually ended up leaving the Church after a few years to become an Episcopal minister. 

Ben’s hesitance makes more sense than ever. Marking her would just be the first step in a whole new undertaking that would put their bond to the test.

“How are things with you two, anyway?” she asks, brightening at the chance to move past the depressing subject of her own love life.

Finn looks surprised by the shift, but he’s smiling too, as talking about Rose tends to make him do. 

“Good. We’re talking about moving out to Germany next year. She’s going to be there for a few semesters, and I’ve only ever lived in England, and we’ve been dancing around the whole moving in together thing for a year at least. So, yeah, it seems like it could be time for a change.”

“Ah, so that offer to be flatmates was just a friendly ruse?” she teases.

“Hey, I said next year. You’re always welcome before then. Or to visit us in Munich. Bring the cute boyfriend.”

Rey gives a wan smile and ignores that last bit. “I know. I think I’ve found my place, though.”

“See? There’s some optimism. More like you.” Finn looks away and then back, expression wary but probing. “You feeling better at all?”

“A bit. Been good to talk about, at least. Make sure I’m not going completely mental.”

“Hey, it’s entirely possible you’re completely mental, but I’ve known that for years. Definitely nothing to do with this sexy priest of yours.”

“Shut it, you.”

Finn flashes a grin. “Happy to help.”

She feels more centered, like she really could face the worst, if it comes. There’s a few weeks left to hope it doesn’t—the real trick will be making her feeble hope last. Keep herself busy. Maybe rearrange her bedroom again. Get a start on that garden she’s been dreaming of since November. The wait may be torture, but no one will be able to accuse her of not using the time productively.


	11. Cleaning Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The end! Thank you so much to anyone who has been reading this, whether from the start or just now getting caught up -- the response to this was way bigger than I am used to or was expecting, so it's been wonderful to see it resonate. And especially to those who took the time to leave comments and messages or create moodboards, art, etc -- it truly made all the difference!
> 
> Thank you also, as always, to glovekinkqueen and inmyownidiom for beta-reading, and to flypaperbrain for helping me find my ABO-feet at the beginning. This really would not have happened without such great support.
> 
> One warning for this chapter: There's a brief instance where blood is spilled and consumed, though it is in a consensual and nonviolent context. Ummm...ABO?
> 
> Happy reading!

With Easter looming less than a week away, Ben figures it’s as good a time as any to do some much-needed cleaning up. It’s probably a bit too literal a take on Canady’s advice, but it’s also the first truly free day he’s had in weeks, and he knows that if he lets himself become idle, he’ll start overthinking everything. Cleaning is one of those activities that’s supposed to be sort of zen—though he tends to be quite orderly as it is, and he’s not one to accumulate stuff he doesn’t use.

Still, it’s good to take stock of something aside from the state of his soul for once, especially when his forty days are almost at a close. Lent ends on Thursday, which is also when he’s supposed to meet Rey in the park and tell her what he’s decided. The problem is, he hasn’t decided. Not yet. If asked right now, this is what he would say:

He wants her. He loves her. He chooses her.

God is all-forgiving, so even a failure such as this would not cast a pall on the rest of his life. Not if his remorse is real. Yet the more he thinks of it in those terms, the more it sounds like selfish rationalization. And does he really want his life with Rey to be one defined by  _ remorse _ ? 

Which is why, if asked an hour from now, his answer might well be the opposite—he made a commitment, a vow, a promise, and he loves her, and he’s sorry, but he can’t break it. It’s better for both of them, for both their souls, to end this now.

What a morbid version that is, if a righteous one. 

Cleaning, then. Better than giving himself emotional whiplash on a Monday morning. To his relief, the task instantly begins to make Ben feel the calmest he has in a month. For once he’s not thinking about himself or the future; he’s not worrying if he’s praying too little or for the wrong things. 

He opens the windows to let the cool air in, and it’s redolent of grass and dirt from last night’s rain. He empties the closet and dresser. Clears out his medicine cabinet. Throws out old magazines and shreds unneeded paperwork, re-sorts his collection of books and records. Dusts every surface, vacuums, washes the sheets, the curtains, the pile of laundry that’s been sitting in the hamper since the end of last week. He’s on his hands and knees on the floor at the end of the bed—bent so low to see underneath that his cheek is practically resting on the floor as he ponders whether he wants to risk the black-hole of archiving old e-mails after this—when he sees it. 

Shoved up against the wall, centered under the headboard, out of sight: a dark metal box the size of a shoebox. He remembers putting it there almost two years ago. Just as he intended, he forgot it was there at all. A holdover from the seminary; and before that, from the corrections facility; and before that, from his childhood bedroom. 

Ben stares at it, as if it might shoot across the floor and wallop him in the face. He could just leave it there and forget about it again. Instead he flattens himself as much as he can, wedges his body partway beneath the bed, and nudges the box toward himself with the tips of his fingers until he can drag it into the light.

He regards it for a few moments like a thing to be wary of, holding it away from himself and inspecting it from all angles as he settles cross-legged on the floor. It looks like one of those fireproof safe boxes, but it's not; just a poor imitation he got as a kid. Something tumbles around when he gives it a shake, and when he finally sighs and unlatches it, the lid sticks a little for how long it's been closed. As the hinges creak quietly, Ben holds his breath and peers inside.

The contents are perfectly unassuming, and he realizes how ridiculous it is to be so antsy about inspecting his own property. It's all just things he's owned for so long they've lost their significance—and yet he's never been able to let them go. A model car that would fit in the palm of his hand. A half-empty pack of playing cards. An award ribbon for middle school wrestling he doesn't remember winning. A birthday card from his parents. Some smooth stones and shells from Puget Sound. A handful of photographs.

There are less happy things too. He finds his father's obituary and a Mass card from the funeral, bundled up with his police badge and the pair of golden dice he used to hang from the rearview of his cruiser. Some crinkled notes from Ben’s mother are tucked into an envelope along with letters from his uncle and assorted holy cards. A few trial records are folded neatly with his detention center release papers.

So maybe it's less that they've loss significance and more that Ben has just hoped they would fade into oblivion, because the sight of it all now makes his stomach turn and his throat tighten. It’s like looking into a cracked mirror and seeing himself reflected back piecemeal, slotted together with every seam on full display. Not a good feeling at all—but, now that he’s experiencing it, he realizes it’s a necessary one. It’s only the sort of thing he’s supposed to encourage in parishioners: an honest, bald reckoning with things he would prefer to shove into a shadowy corner to collect dust.

And God help him, he hasn’t done that in a very long time.

Ben sits on the edge of the bed and pokes through the box as his residual disdain for its contents fades. He thought these things weren’t relevant anymore because they don’t represent who he is now. Except that is exactly what they represent. 

He’s the exact same person—an Alpha who was never comfortable being what he was, who sought outlet after outlet and found every single one wanting or destructive. He just got better at hiding it from others until he found the perfect place to keep it all out of his own sight too. His faith is real. He  _ believes _ there’s a God, that serving Him through the Church is a noble undertaking, that there’s salvation and forgiveness to be found there. 

Looking at this box now, he knows it wasn’t what drew him to this life. That wasn’t the start. 

He picks up his father’s obituary clipping, remembering the general sentiments— _ Han Solo died bravely but too young, in the service of a greater good. He is survived by a wife and son. _ The Mass card has a painting of St. George on one side, a photo of his father on the other. The badge is scratched and needs to be polished. The golden dice are heavy when he lets them rest in his palm. 

He doesn’t unfold the letters from his mother, but he knows what they say. She misses him. She forgives him. She wants him home. He remembers the ones from Uncle Luke, too. He’s glad Ben has taken an interest in his faith. Sometimes it takes a fall to bring a person home; no shame in that. If he has questions, if he needs guidance when he’s served his time, he should never hesitate to write. It’s never too late to make oneself anew.

It’s like a map laid out before him, start to finish. Dissatisfaction and self-recrimination, guilt and remorse, the promise of a place to heal and hide. An attractive means to redeem what part of himself he could and snuff out the rest. 

And then he met Rey.

_ That _ was a start, too, of something he’d never experienced in his life. It was uncomfortable. It made him question his motivations. It made him want to stop hiding. He wanted her to know him, everything about him, and like an idiot he let it happen . . . and she  _ stayed _ . She answered his vulnerability with her own, as if she recognized something in him.

But in a few days that all might be reduced to a handful of mementos in this box. He imagines adding the broken antler tip they found on one of their hikes near the camping ground; his race bib from the 5K the night they kissed; the old laminated leaflet she used as he led her through her faltering first confession. He could place those things inside with all the rest, close the box up, and slide it back under his bed. Rey would become another piece of himself he denies and puts away, no longer any use. 

It’s an abhorrent thought. How could he do that and live with himself?

He can’t.

He assumed the decision would come with more fanfare, but it comes just like that, in a quiet moment of acceptance, alone with memories and possibilities. He isn’t praying, he isn’t trying to force an answer. Suddenly he just knows. He’s been complacent for years. And Rey, in a fraction of that time, has shaken him out of it. She has been the choice he’s made again and again—questioning, doubting, stumbling, but choosing her anyway. He doesn’t have to do it. No force compels him, and it won’t fix him. But it makes him want to face himself, and every time he chooses her it feels like coming home.

Maybe that’s not the right answer, but it’s his. It’s the one he’ll own in three days, when he meets her and tells her. And then . . . he’ll worry about what happens afterward when the time comes. ‘Another sort of talk’, as Canady put it. If only he knew.

There’s a rapping at Ben’s door, and when he opens it, he finds Canady standing there straightening a photograph on the wall, as if he knows his name was just invoked.

“Ransolm said he saw you tearing through the building with a broom and an armful of garbage bags, but I didn’t believe him. Silly me.” He waves a sheet of paper at Ben. “In the mood for some fresh air?”

Ben eyes his open window, then looks back to Canady. “I was just about to finish up here and go for a run in the park, actually.”

“You never stop, do you?” Canady says with an even regard. “Nice day for it, though.”

“Hence my interest in doing so. Was there something you wanted?” 

“I was hoping you could do a shopping run for the Holy Thursday dinner.” Canady proffers the paper at him. “Ransolm will be at the hospital until this evening, and I have a meeting in an hour with the heads of the youth ministry. Unless you’d rather handle that?”

The glow of satisfaction Ben had been basking in a moment ago is beginning to dim under the mundane reminder of his duties and commitments here. He wonders if Canady will be so personable when he finds out the truth. He nods and pockets the grocery list.

“I’ll stop by the store on my way back.” 

Canady chuckles. “I had a feeling you’d opt for that one. I trust your discretion for the wine selection.”

The monsignor leaves him to his own devices then, and it’s only a few minutes until he’s dressed and ready to head to the park. Ben regards the box, which is still sitting in the middle of his mattress, dusty and unassuming. It no longer feels quite so repugnant. He moves it to the top of his dresser and gently shuts the lid, but not before he takes the golden dice and slips them into the pocket of his sweatshirt. They jingle with his keys as he makes his way outside.

+

Rey should have taken one of the proper trolleys instead of the handbasket, but it’s too late now and the idea of going back to switch provokes a bout of stupid, stubborn pride that refuses to let her do so. She hoists the basket, already heavy and half-full of produce, into the crook of her elbow instead and strides along the back aisle toward the butcher counter. There’s still a lot left to get, and then she needs to rush home to unload everything before her jiu jitsu class, so she’s in a mad state of autopilot. 

Avoid the center aisles. Get the necessities. Get out. 

It’s a simple plan . . . which is why she’s a bit confused when she realizes she’s ended up in the soup aisle instead of at the meat counter, looking for her favorite brand of French onion and convinced she ought to circle back for a loaf of crusty bread and a block of nice, rich  Gruyère . Granted, French onion soup has long been one of Rey’s go-tos for some easy comfort and a satisfying meal. But it was not one of the things on her mind when she decided to make a guerrilla-style grocery run in the middle of an already busy day. Irritated by her distraction, Rey sighs and grabs two cans, dumps them in her basket, and resumes her quest for a decent cut of steak and a pack of sausage links. Her inner carnivore has been howling all day.

Apparently, not as loudly as other urges. While she waits for the middle-aged woman behind the counter to wrap her order, Rey is hit with the compulsion to pick up a few jars of peanut butter and a box or two of hot chocolate mix. The smell of the coffee aisle—it’s not even that nearby—is suddenly making her a touch nauseated but also beckons her to come closer. Her hands begin to feel clammy, and for a moment the lights in the store are far too bright. Something about the very  _ air _ of the store has changed, she’s positive, and ridiculous as it sounds, it makes her think of Ben. Suddenly everything just smells like him.

Which makes no sense. She misses him, yeah, but she’s been managing all right and Thursday is only a few days off. This is just weird.

Rey winces as her stomach does a little somersault, and she begins to understand. Cravings for rich, comforting foods. Increased sensitivity to favorite scents. Nausea. Feverishness. Dry mouth. And, oh, there’s the first cramp, right in her middle, like a fist clutching her guts. 

_ Oh _ .

Soon will come the spike in her temperature, the effusion of slick, and the uncontrollable need to be fucked, and then she’ll really be in trouble. Especially if there are any Alphas in the store right now.

“Fuck.”

The butcher raises her head, a piece of tape stuck between her fingers. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry, I—” 

How long ago was that last heat? Four months? Does it even matter for an Omega who’s been on suppressants so long her cycle is most likely fucked up for good? The answer to that question, she remembers at this most inconvenient of moments, is yes. Yes, it does matter.

“Never mind about the steak, actually,” Rey says tightly. “I need to go. Thanks for your trouble.”

Ignoring the butcher’s bewildered look, Rey turns on her heel without further explanation and heads toward the front of the store at a clip. It’ll be fine. On her motorbike, it takes her only fifteen minutes to get home. She can make that. But God, she already feels like shit, and her heat’s not even fully started yet. 

She’s trying to stay calm, but this has never happened to her in public before. Not since she was a teenager, anyway, and that was such a nightmare that she never wanted it to happen again. The store’s bloody playlist is piping “Mr. Blue Sky” down at a needlessly obnoxious volume that makes her want to curl up under a mountain of pillows and expire. And there is absolutely something wrong with the air in this place; it’s so close and hot it practically itches, like a wool sweater she can’t take off. She slides her leather jacket off instead.

Still it’s too much. How can anyone breathe in here? Why does she only smell  _ him _ ?

It’s wishful thinking. Her mind trying to give her body what it’s so desperate for. Without thinking, Rey turns sharply and begins to walk toward the frozen foods. If she can stick her head inside one of the freezers for a few seconds, that will clear her mind and set her right long enough to get out and away. Makes sense.

She’s standing in front of an open freezer filled with colorful pints of Ben and Jerry’s, forcing herself to focus on counting down from thirty as she basks in the wonderful frigid air ( _ then I’ll go, then I’ll go, I swear, I have to get home, just a few more seconds _ ), when a hand lands lightly on her shoulder and nearly sends her stumbling into the freezer in alarm. Instead, she trips over the handbasket at her feet and gawps at the intruder as she regains her balance. It’s a man she doesn’t know, though he’s wearing a Superstore uniform. She can tell immediately that he’s not an Alpha, which is a relief . . . but his presence still sends her body into an overdrive of combating interest and panic.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

Rey stands up a bit taller, as tall as she can with her legs awkwardly pressed together, and considers putting her jacket back on. God, why did she wear a dress today? The weather’s barely even right for it yet. 

“I’m fine.”

The man—Dopheld, Store Manager, according to his name tag—is unconvinced. “If you need medical attention—”

“I said I’m fine,” she snaps.

She must already look worse than she thought. For the first time she notices that the neckline of her dress is soaked with cold sweat, and the skin on her arms looks dewy and feverish. 

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll have to ask you to please make your selections with the freezer door closed. The products need to be kept at a particular temperature.”

How long has she been standing here?

“I was just—” 

Her sentence is cut short as a second man appears out of nowhere and shoves Dopheld roughly aside, pinning him inside the freezer, right up against the shelves she was just staring at. 

He’s looming over Dopheld, nearly nose to nose, teeth bared. His breath clouds as he snarls, “ _ Get away from her _ .”

For a moment she’s convinced she’s hallucinating. It’s too weird. Too good to be true. The fever is messing even more with her head than she realized. But that scent—it’s undeniably real, it’s been hanging around her since the butcher counter, following her like a second shadow, maybe longer. She wasn’t just imagining it in her desperation.

“Ben?”

He’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and his trainers are caked with mud. The hair at the nape of his neck is damp, and the back of his shirt is dark with a wedge-shaped soak of sweat. The keys to his truck are clutched in the hand that’s not still pressed to Dopheld’s chest; he looks like he might be considering how best to use them in an act of violence. He shoves Dopheld again, like he hasn’t heard Rey at all, and this time a few pints of Phish Food tumble to the floor and roll sadly across the linoleum.

“Ben.”

He blinks and takes a deep breath at the sound of his name, then releases his hold on Dopheld, who slips away in affront. In the next instant, his eyes settle on Rey and it’s like he’s forgotten the manager is there at all. He crowds her back instead, until she’s pressed against the door of the next freezer. It feels so good—the cold glass at her back, his warm, solid body at her front—that she moans, then claps a self-conscious hand over her mouth. Ben’s face is right there, inches away, his eyes fixed on hers.

He pushes a few strands of hair away from her face, his fingers brushing her scent gland. “Let me take you home.” 

Rey nods and folds forward just enough to press her face against the side of his neck. She’s almost afraid to breathe him in, but when she does she can’t imagine anything better.  _ Fuck _ , this is absolutely real. She shudders, and her hands tighten at his hips.

“Yes. Please.”

Dopheld, no longer frozen in outraged confusion, looks between them and nearly rolls his eyes.

“Oh. I see.” Warily, he glances at Ben. “Listen, you two need to leave the store. This isn’t a place for . . . whatever’s going on here.”

He knows exactly what’s going on here, and Rey can hardly blame him for his chilly demeanor and desire to see them gone. It might be a slow time of day, but she doubts the store wants to acquire a reputation for allowing Alphas to rut errant Omegas in the middle of the aisles.

“We’re going,” they both bite out in unison.

They’re already vacating the area, handbasket abandoned, freezer hanging open, ice cream cartons strewn on the floor. Dopheld is muttering his displeasure behind them and beckoning a stock boy to help him clear up the mess. As they beat a breathless, hasty retreat past the cash registers, Ben nearly bowls over a trio of teenagers loitering by the entrance. Rey absently apologizes, clutching her jacket tightly to her chest.

“The hell are you doing here?” she demands as Ben pulls her along through the automatic doors. 

“Buying groceries, what do you think?”

She snorts, stumbling in the wake of his long strides and trying to ignore the slimy warmth of the slick that’s now dripping down her thigh. Any further explanation for his unexpected appearance is going to need to wait. It’s a relief to see him anyway, to touch him and smell him. It’s also a little terrible. Now she can barely think of anything but having his cock inside her and how much she misses the way it feels to come around it. 

Her heart leaps when she spies his truck a few spots away. She's gripping his hand so tight his fingers must be going numb by the time they reach it. Her bike is . . . it's somewhere. She doesn't really care about it right now. She doesn't really care about anything except making the ache stop.

Suddenly they're in the cab. Logically, she knows she got into it somehow. Maybe she clambered in on her own. Maybe he put her in it himself. No, he would have buckled her seatbelt too. She laughs a little at that as the ignition roars. Ben begins to peel out of the lot. He's holding it together, but barely. Better than she is, at least. The sun's too bloody bright, and she's so, so hot, and even with her bare legs and arms, Rey feels like she’s suffocating and melting at once. By the time they make it to her place, all that’ll be left of her is a puddle on the floor and some condensation on the windshield. 

She squirms in her seat and tugs her soaked underwear down her legs, kicking them off when they snag around her trainers. She's not sure why she did that. It doesn't actually help, and now the seat of Ben's truck is going to be even more of a mess. It isn’t her fault.

“I’m sorry,” she says anyway.

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are glued on the road. The windows are down, and there's fresh air coming in, but the smell of him in his sweaty running clothes just keeps assaulting her senses instead. She tears her eyes from the whirl of scenery and looks at the rearview mirror. The rosary’s still there, dangling with a faded air freshener and something she’s never seen before—a pair of golden dice. Weird. But the curiosity it provokes is too feeble a distraction. They’ve barely made it a block down the road from the grocery when she heaves a cry of impatience as a particularly virulent cramp sends a wave of fire from her center and up her spine until even her fingernails feel as if they're burning.

She’s empty. She needs to be filled. She needs to be filled right now or the emptiness inside will expand until she crumples in on herself like a brittle husk.

“Ben. Please pull over.” Rey paws some sweat from her brow and wrings her hands in her skirt. “I need you to rut me. Here. Please. I can't wait until we get home.”

She trails off, her entreaty reduced to a string of  _ pleasepleaseplease  _ under her breath, and she feels pathetic and horrible and exposed, even with him right there. He’s her Alpha, but this isn’t  _ her _ space. Her things aren’t here. Nothing smells like her. She’s not safe. 

It's the hormones, it's the chemistry, but knowing that doesn't make it easier until she takes a deep breath of his scent.

“Okay.” The sound of his voice makes her want to crawl on top of him so she can press her ear to his chest and hear it rumbling inside him. “Okay, I know. Hang on for me.”

Ben still won’t look at her. It’s probably all he can do to stay focused on driving while he's in a rut and she's in such a single-minded state of desperation. One of his hands has clasped around hers. It's supposed to be comforting, she guesses, centering, but it's only a shadow of what she needs. She fights not to drag his hand down between her thighs to fill herself with his fingers. She knows what they can do for her. How they feel curling inside her. How they taste coated in her slick. How they could make her come right where she sits.

Rey swallows and rubs his fingers and forces herself to take in their surroundings as he veers into an empty car park. There's an old abandoned strip mall toward the back of it, and that's it. He cuts around behind the building and brakes so abruptly the tires screech against the asphalt.

Good enough. 

Wordlessly, Rey hikes her dress up and climbs into his lap even while he's in the middle of turning the engine off and putting his seat back as far as it will go. There’s barely enough room anyway, but she's grateful that this isn't like last time, when he had so many layers to shed, buttons, zippers, things in the way. As she awkwardly straddles him, he hitches his hips. She tugs his shorts down just enough to free his erection, takes him in hand, and sinks down onto him with a whimper of gratitude.

She begins to ride him hard right away, enough to rock the truck, enough that when he bucks up to join the rhythm of her movement, it drives her ass against the steering wheel and sets the horn blaring intermittently. The back of her head and shoulders bump the ceiling. In any other situation she might find it funny. Instead it just annoys her, and she pushes him further back and flattens her body over his as much as she can manage. His arms lock around her like a vise, fingers wound so tight in the sweat-damp fabric of her dress she wonders if he might rip it off her entirely. Could be nice.

She feels the minute changes where they are joined as she leaks slick all over him, soaking her dress, his shorts, and the seat beneath them. His knot is already beginning to expand, pressing just a bit at her walls with each thrust, then more insistently. That's what she wants. It’s the most wonderful feeling—a promise of that perfect moment of fullness afterward, the one she craves most of all with him. But they shouldn’t, not here. They can’t get themselves stuck in the front seat of a truck in an abandoned lot for the next forty-five minutes. 

Can they?

Rey presses her lips to his hairline, her hands massaging his scent glands with such aggression she can’t believe it feels good enough to draw sounds of pleasure from him. His mouth hasn't left the side her her neck; she can hear the long, deep breaths he drags in over her skin, pulling her scent into himself. His soft moans melt into words murmured against her pulse— _ It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here, it’s okay, I’ll make it better, you’re so so good Rey— _ and the world melts too until it’s just him. The feel of his body, the sound of his voice, the heady high of his scent, the glow of how she loves him.

He nips at her scent gland, a sharp warning that makes her nerves sing.  _ Oh yes, please, just like that. Please.  _ He does it again—pinches her gland with his teeth, pulls, releases, puffs a hot, ragged breath over the spot as his fingers drift down to massage her clit. The third time his teeth scrape her neck it makes her come, her moan muffled in the crown of his head. She hears each wet slide of his cock in and out as he continues to thrust against her. His hands are cupping her ass to hold her in place while her walls clench around him. His breaths are coming faster, more irregular.

“Don’t knot me,” she says, breathless enough in the grasp of her orgasm that she worries he might not hear. “Not in here.”

“I know. I’m taking you home.”

“Good.”

“I’m taking you to bed and knotting you there.”

“Good.”

As if that was all the affirmation he needed, Ben breathes out hard against her and finishes. When he’s spent and still, Rey doesn’t climb off of him right away. Instead she stays cradled in his lap as his fingers reach up to stroke her lower back beneath her dress. He stretches forward to kiss her. They’ve barely done that at all this time, and it’s a short, sweet gesture that doesn’t fit at all with the frantic pace of what preceded it. The warmth that pulses through her now is one of relief, like she’s just come home to a fresh, toasty bed after trudging through a blizzard.

“Fuck,” he utters as his breathing slows. His forehead settles against hers. “I am so sorry.”

He has got to be the most apologetic Alpha she has ever encountered—bloody Catholics. She snickers, a touch delirious. 

“You really need to stop saying that right after you rut me.”

“I knew you were in there. I could smell you. I could tell you were close to a heat. And I’m all . . .” He gestures vaguely at his sweaty clothes. He’s right; she still can’t smell anything but him. Even now, barely a minute after she’s come, even with his cock softening inside her, it makes her restless and needy. “I shouldn’t have risked it.”

“But you did.”

He’s quiet for a few moments as his eyes search hers. “There was something I wanted to tell you. A few days early. I thought it would be okay.”

The silence that settles is brief but significant. Rey knows what he’s saying—or not saying. She  _ thinks _ she does. In the frenzy it never occurred to her that this wasn’t settled yet, how things would go between them. If there is a them anymore. This isn’t really the place she wants to hear what he’s decided, for better or worse. She nods and kisses him again, just a quick peck, then stills with her scent gland pressed against his.

“Is it?” she asks. 

“It will be.”

“Okay.”

He sighs as she slides away from him and clambers back into her own seat, ungainly and trembling, already missing him. She was right. She’s dripping cum and slick, and the seat’s got slick on it too, and so do Ben’s shorts as he tucks himself back into them and starts up the truck. All the prayers in the world couldn't save his upholstery now. He looks at her evenly, disheveled and pink-cheeked and glassy eyed but somehow still the picture of resolve.

“Let’s go home.”

+

Even after half a lifetime of fighting it, Ben has never encountered a force more persuasive than the Alpha brain. While there is very little of the rational about something that tells him to take whatever he wants—to dominate and rut and  _ win  _ because he’s an Alpha and it’s what he deserves—it manages to make even the most ridiculous ideas seem perfectly sensible when there’s something to be gained. 

Such as when he was walking up to the Superstore a half hour ago. One moment, he was frowning down at Canady’s grocery list as he tried to decode the man’s cramped scrawl of handwriting; the next, he was hit with the undeniable realization that Rey was inside. He could smell her. He could feel the pull he always does when she’s near. After briefly debating himself, he determined that he would go find her  _ now _ and tell her. 

So what if it was early? It would make her happy. They could both stop wondering. They could really begin.

Then he took another breath and picked up one more thing, a subtle undercurrent growing stronger by the moment: Rey was about to go into heat. It was the barest whisper of the way she smelled in December, but his body recognized it before he was even consciously aware, the same way the sound of sirens sometimes makes his skin crawl. The Alpha brain was even more interested now than it had been, roused beneath its blinkering mist of suppressants, strong as it ever was in her presence. 

Was Ben thinking that he ought to play it safe and hightail it out of here? How ridiculous. He should definitely go talk to Rey. She’s his anyway—she should have  _ called him _ and told him she would need him. And if she hadn’t known? All the more reason for him to go to her. What was there to worry about? Was he in control, or wasn’t he? 

Needless to say, he doesn’t think he’ll be welcome back at the Superstore anytime soon. And he shouldn’t be surprised that he’s speeding down a suburban street in his truck at half-past four in the afternoon with Rey beside him smelling like springtime, dripping slick and full of cum, radiating the undeniable aura of her heat. Five minutes ago, his cock was inside her, and she was bucking and sighing and moaning until they both came; she hasn’t stopped touching him since. Her fingers press at his shoulder or thigh as he drives. Her hand clutches his at the one red light they hit—the one he barely keeps from speeding through. 

He’s taking her home. He wants to take her away, put her somewhere safe, somewhere she feels loved and protected and cared for, surrounded by her things, her smells, and him. He wants to be with her until every time he breathes her in he can no longer tell where one of them starts and the other ends. Rutting her in the parking lot took the edge off just enough, but he still wouldn’t want to be the person or thing that dares get in their way. Right now, he’d tear the world apart for her. 

Maybe it’s an overstatement to say that brief rut took the edge off.

By the time they pull up outside her place she’s so clearly ready to have him again he's shocked they make it all the way to the bedroom before she’s throwing her dress on the floor and sprawling atop her duvet. In the late-day sun, her skin is gold and glowing. Her legs are spread, toes curled and kneading the duvet with nervous energy. Chest heaving, throat glimmering with sweat, she arches her back and pulls her hands through her hair as she watches him hastily undress. Her eyes are burning and eager when he settles over her. Her slick-sticky thighs clamp around him, and she kisses him hard enough to steal his breath as he sinks into her.

She’s perfect. Hot, wet, pliant, and so, so soft. He pulls one of her legs higher and urges her open to take him deeper. Here in the heart of her home, the smell of how aroused she is by him is even harder to bear than it was in the truck. His thoughts are a mess of stunted directives as he ruts her into the easy give of her mattress.

There was something he wanted to tell her. He  _ knows _ what it was, and he thought he would find the perfect moment . . . it begins to dawn on him there might not be one. It doesn’t matter. Rey doesn’t want him to tell her things; her eyes are screwed shut, her mouth slack as wordless cries pour out. She wants him to act and make her feel. 

He winds a hand in her hair and pulls until her head rolls to the side, exposing her scent gland. It’s a touch more flushed than the rest of her skin, a rosy, fragrant fever bloom, and he can’t look away. Ben inhales until his lungs are filled with her, then presses his tongue there and drags it slowly over it. The skin is thin and tender, ember hot, soft and delicate as a petal. Just beneath, her nerves spark, her blood skips fast and sweet.

She bucks into him, body stiffening. Her fingers dig hard into his sides, enough that even her blunt nails leave a searing trail along his ribs. 

“God, do that again,” she says through a sigh, tipping her chin back further, offering him more. “Slower, though. It’s so good.”

He does, and begins to salivate. His jaw twitches. His teeth practically itch to press, push, break her skin, taste her blood as it mingles with sweat, mark her. He licks and nibbles over and over as she writhes, and in the chorus of her encouraging moans his focus is reduced to a single point—she’s his Omega. 

_ Mine _ . 

He’s waited so long. Too long.

Experimentally, Ben opens his jaw as wide as he can, instinct guiding him until he is almost perfectly encircling her scent gland with his teeth, then clamps down. Rey gives a cry of surprise. She swallows hard and holds him tighter, almost frozen, limbs flexed and taut as a new rush of slick bathes his cock, his balls, her thighs, the rumpled bedspread. He hasn’t broken the skin, but it wouldn’t take much more. In their current state, their glands are more sensitive, the skin there is thinner. When he runs his tongue over one of his canine teeth, it feels unusually sharp. Hers will be the same.

He could bite her, and she could bite him back, and then . . .

“Rey.” 

He pulls his face away from her neck to look her in the eye. Her pupils are huge, her eyebrows arched with expectation, her nostrils flaring. She’s hissing quick, uneven breaths between her teeth. Her lips are plump and inviting. She doesn’t seem to have processed that he’s just said her name. He nuzzles her cheek and tries again.

“Rey.”

“Hm?” 

She breathes out a shivery sigh, and her eyes fall shut as he traces a thumb along her hairline and rocks his hips against hers slowly. 

“You know you can knot me this time,” she says. “You don’t need to ask.”

“I know.” He runs the pads of his fingers over her lower lip until she dips her chin and takes them into her mouth, nipping his fingertips, sucking lightly. “But do you still want me to mark you?”

Rey’s immediate response is a low, rather obscene hum of pleasure when he changes the angle of his hips. Grinding up against him, she stretches her neck to expose her gland more than it already is. As his fingers glance over the spot he’s been licking, her lips curve in a rapturous grin.

“Is that a yes?” His voice is a rasp he barely recognizes.

“What do you think?”

He knows it is. Her desires have not changed. He  _ knows _ . 

“So say it. I want to hear it.” He’s trying to slow down and hold back, make this last just long enough, but with every moment it’s more difficult to defer the inevitable. “If you want me, I’m yours. It’s you. But I need to know you’re—”

She cuts him off with a messy, searing kiss, hands tangled at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I want you to mark me, Ben. I want you.” 

She’s so, so close to the peak. He can feel it, he can smell it. He can hear it in the erratic stutter of her breathing. And God, he’s been ready to knot her since the grocery store. 

Ben draws her hair aside, inhales one last time against her neck, then opens his mouth and bites. Her skin resists at first, and a grunt of determined frustration catches at the back of his throat.  _ So close, so close, press harder, you won’t hurt her.  _ She shudders underneath him, kneading her fingers into his back, lips stretched tight over her bared teeth as she whimpers and moans. His jaw strains, the tendons in his neck flex, and he drives his teeth through. 

Rey gasps sharply. Her blood is on his tongue, staining his lips and teeth. There’s not a lot of it, but it’s enough to dribble from the corners of his mouth as he tightens his hold. 

He needs to make this stick. Everyone needs to see it and know. She’s his. With every thrust of his hips, with every drop of sweat, blood, slick, cum. And she tastes so  _ sweet _ —he knows it’s just a trick of chemistry warping his perception of that sickly iron tang, but he laps greedily anyway, imbibing it like something potent and sacred.

Her cunt tightens in quick contractions around his cock, but he hardly notices; he’s too fixated on tracing his tongue over the ring of neat punctures his teeth have left, cleaning away the smears of red, lost in a morass of altered senses beyond the edge of climax. She tastes different, smells different—like herself, like him, like the two of them together making something new. He doesn’t really process that she’s come until he hears her shout, an explosive sound even buried against his shoulder. Rey is clinging, pulling away, twisting beneath him, bucking so hard she manages to roll them both to the side. 

Her fingers tug at his hair. She seeks him with parted lips. He grips her jaw firmly and guides her closer, baring his neck to her. 

“Here,” he tells her. “Take me.”

She quakes with another wave of pleasure and bites him. As he did, she struggles initially, swallowing stubborn growls before her teeth sink through. It’s a sharp, white-hot pain for an instant—then it melts into the most perversely complete pleasure he’s ever felt. She’s plucked a chord, and his whole body is an answering thrum. The sounds coming out of him as he climaxes a second time aren’t words. They’re barely even human.

Rey’s mouth clamps tighter as she claims him, her limbs scrabble, her cunt squeezes around him again. The brief, intense high of his own orgasm is hardly fading when he feels a another right on its tail. The sensation redoubles, leaving him so sensitive that he can’t be still as he continues to drive his hips compulsively against her, spilling what feels like an impossible amount of cum into her body. His knot, tight and hard inside her from the first moment of completion, expands even further, but trickles of wet warmth escape anyway with each pulse of his cock. 

He doesn’t want it to end. Caught in the moment, a push and pull of wild, mindless motion, it feels as if it really might not. They could stay like this, locked in a perpetual state of shared orgasmic ecstasy. 

When he stills, sore and sated, Rey is rubbing her face in the crook of his neck as if trying to soothe herself. Her touch and the timbre of her sighs almost make him come again. It’s a close thing—he feels his balls tingle as his cock pulses in the aftershocks of their union, as if he could possibly expend any more into her so soon after all that. Even during their trysting in December, it was never like  _ this _ . He forgot how absurdly resilient his body could be in a rut, given the right stimulation. Parts of his body, anyway. The rest of him feels spectacularly wrung out.

They’ve settled on their sides, and though he’s compelled to roll her beneath him again and cover her up, he knows she prefers to cuddle up on top of him during a knot. Holding her close, he shifts heavily onto his back. She stretches out over him like a blanket, loose-limbed, her hair hanging down to curtain her face, tickling his chest. A lazy grin quirks her lips and makes him want to kiss her—so he does, long and slow until she gives a happy little moan and lets her mouth travel lower over his jaw.

He’s kissing her shoulder when her chest twitches with a sharp intake of breath.

“Jesus Christ, Ben.”

A very quiet part of him needles righteously at her word choice. But mostly, her breathless, awed tone only provokes his ego and thoughts of how tightly his cock is knotted inside her right now, how much of his cum he just filled her with, how many times he’s going to get to do this with her again over the next few days.

He gives a low, distracted chuckle.

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing his way toward her neck as he palms her ass. “I haven’t come that hard in—”

“No, no, it’s . . . Okay, yeah, that, but . . .” She laughs incredulously, then traces his scent gland with her finger. The spot is still tender where she marked him. It’s not uncomfortable, just strange—a gentle throb. Her light touch leaves a pleasant tingle in its wake. “The corona around a full moon. Remember?”

Ben stops kissing her and opens his eyes. “What?”

“Where I marked you. It’s . . . er. Well.” She shakes her head and smiles at him. Her eyes are shining, but not from the heat fever—this looks more like tears, and he realizes she’s trembling. “Check me and see for yourself?”

He pushes her hair away from her neck and his heart skips. The circular mark left by his teeth has stopped bleeding, though it’s still inflamed. Her scent, slightly altered and more irresistible than ever because of the way his own has knitted into it, emanates delight from the spot with each beat of her pulse. And the skin there shines faintly, warm pinkish-orange. It reminds him of the way her body glowed in the sun as she waited for him to join her in bed. He knows the mark of a true mate when he sees one; he just never thought he would see one this close. And he sure as hell never thought it would be one he’d given.

He swallows the lump that forms in his throat and touches her mark gingerly, then wipes away the remnants of blood and sweat. As he licks them from his thumb, Rey’s eyes widen with uncertainty. 

“Well?” she asks. 

“Holy shit.”

“You see it too.” She breathes out a short laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

He keeps staring at it, afraid to look away. If he lets it out of his sight, he might look back to find it was all a trick of the light. His mind showing him what his heart wants rather than what’s really there. A dream.

As if she’s read his thoughts (or, more likely, seen the flicker of doubt in his eyes) Rey looks at him with bald affection and brackets his face with her hands.

“You are taking this way better than I expected.” 

“Am I?”

“Well, you don’t appear to be descending into a crisis of any sort,” she says, then sniffles. “And you’re not a soppy mess like me, so. Yeah, not bad.”

Truthfully, he’s not really sure how he’s taking it. He’s still processing the fact of the mark and what it means. The sheer unlikeliness of it surprises him, but he’s also not surprised at all. Of course it would go this way. Of course it’s  _ her _ . So when it comes to how he feels about Rey and his decision, it changes nothing. But as for what he tells Canady when the time comes . . . Ben has options again. 

Thoughts for another day. Finally he has some certainty, and he’s made peace with it. The last year feels vindicated in a beautiful, tangible way. He won’t let that go. 

Rey laughs again, giddy with relief and endorphins, but the tears he saw in her eyes are trickling down her cheeks too. He kisses them away as she laces her fingers together behind his head and lets her wrist glands rest at the sides of his neck. 

“A happy soppy mess, though. I hope.” His eyes drift shut.

“Embarrassingly happy.” 

“Me too.”

“ _ And _ ”—she pauses to clear her throat importantly—“I told you so.”

“What!”

“I told you to have a little trust. Not be so afraid of what would happen.”

She’s right. He remembers that conversation. He envied her easy belief that something like this could be possible, not just for a handful of examples she’s read about or seen in schmaltzy movies, but for them. Their souls were meant to meet and bond. It’s the answer to a prayer he was too afraid or too proud to make. 

And she might not be the only embarrassingly happy, soppy mess if he keeps down that line of thought. He can feel his throat tightening and the hot tickle of tears threatening to build.

Ben cracks an eye open expressly for the purpose of narrowing it at her. “Save the gloating for behind my back.” 

“I do like you from that angle.” 

He gives a scolding hiss and teasingly pinches the back of her thigh, garnering a tug of his hair in return. She relaxes again as her quiet laughter melts away.

“You’ll stay this time,” she says, pillowing her cheek on his chest. “Until it’s over. Right?”

“Someone needs to make sure you’re well-fed.”

Rey snorts. “ _ Not _ the foremost thing I want you around for, but a perk.”

“Especially since you left all your groceries behind.”

“Did you even have any, or did you just come barrelling in because you smelled me?”

“I had a list,” Ben insists. It’s probably still crumpled up in the pocket of his running shorts. “Mo needed me to pick things up for the Holy Thursday dinner.”

She gives a sympathetic hum. “Don’t suppose you’ll be making it to that.”

He most definitely will not be.

  
  


They lie locked together in dozy, contented silence for a little over an hour before his knot loosens enough that he can move away. He does so with great reluctance, though there are things they both need to do. 

Not clean-up. That’ll be a lost cause until her heat ends. He spilled so much inside her that there’s still cum dripping from her when he pulls out. As he touches her, lightly running his fingers over her folds and pressing them inside, Rey sits up and smears what he misses along her thighs and licks the rest from her own fingers and his. Soon they’re tangled again, movements loose and exploratory. Any excuse to stay in bed, to keep touching and tasting until it’s time to start again.

But it’s not yet, and Rey’s stomach keeps growling. After a while he can’t ignore his urge to make sure she’s fed before he fucks her next. Practically speaking, she’s not the only one who could benefit from some sustenance—he ran almost seven miles and then flew directly into the full-body overdrive of a rut barely fifteen minutes after. A break might not be what he  _ wants _ , but it’s what they both need. 

By the time he locates his phone, Rey has already pulled her laptop from somewhere and is pecking away at the keyboard with a look of utmost concentration. He steals a glance at the screen—she’s on the Domino’s website, adding pineapple to a large pepperoni pizza (sounds atrocious, but nobody’s perfect). Confident that she’ll be busy awhile, he sinks down onto the other end of the bed and dials Canady. The meeting he spoke of should be over by now, and there’s a good chance Ben’s absence has become conspicuous.

After greetings and perfunctory niceties, Ben gets right to it. “I never actually made it to the store.”

“No?”

“No. I . . . without going into too many details, I’m in a rut.”

“I assume you don’t mean metaphorically.”

“That would be more convenient, but no.” Absently, Ben rubs his thumb over the mark Rey left on his skin only an hour ago. He can already feel it becoming a habit when he needs to center himself. “I know the timing’s terrible, but I’m going to need a few days away.”

“Timing can’t be helped, I suppose.” Canady clears his throat. “You heading up to the Haven, then?”

They’ve had a similar conversation twice before. When Ben goes into a rut—admittedly a much milder version than the ones Rey seems to bring out in him—he calls Canady, and lets him know he’ll be spending a few nights at the Alpha retreat out in the boonies. He almost says it now but stops himself. This isn’t the time or the place to have the necessary conversation with Canady, but there’s also no reason not to be candid. The lie ends today, starting by degrees.

“No. I found another place. Closer by.”

“Ah.”

He draws a breath and holds it for a few moments. “You should know, I’m . . . with someone. A woman.”

“I see. An Omega?”

_My Omega._ _Mine._

“Yes.”

“Is it that Ms. Stafford?”

Ben’s brief silence is no doubt telling enough. “How did you know?”

“It’s part of my job to notice things happening around the parish. Also, I have eyes.” His tone takes a placating turn. “I wouldn’t ask so directly if I wasn’t fairly certain.” 

“Right. Well. I appreciate the candor.”

Canady expels a long sigh at the other end of the line. “You and I are going to be having another chat when you get back, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, Mo, we are.” 

The confirmation that Canady knew, or at least had suspicions, doesn’t surprise him—but the fact that it feels like a balm does. When Ben drops the full truth on him, perhaps his reaction will be mitigated by expectation. The situation could still be redeemed. And now at least Ben doesn’t have a lie hanging over him for the next few days. 

The mattress shifts as Rey closes her laptop and rises to put it away again. He can’t help being distracted by her. She’s tied her hair back in a messy knot at the top of her head, so her mark is as bare to him now as the rest of her body. The glow has stopped, and the ring of punctures has gone pale, already beginning to scar. She moves purposefully around the room, gathering pillows and blankets, piling them onto the bed behind him with some apparent order. The slightly mad look of her heat is already returning; her skin is dewy, and he can smell the excess of slick at the juncture of her thighs even when she’s halfway across the room. He’ll need to see to her after this call. 

Which he wants more than ever to be done with. The last thing he wants is to subject Canady to some embarrassing, involuntary vocal reaction to the sight of Rey naked and nesting within arm’s reach. Her mere proximity is already making him hard again.

“Ben.” Canady’s voice rumbles in his ear. “Still there?”

“I— Yes. What?”

“I said let me know when you’re coming back. I’ll set aside some time. And the Macallan.”

Ben hates Scotch but suspects they’ll both need it. He swallows thickly and nods. “I will. Good. Thanks.”

“Take care, Ben.”

The connection ends, and he sits in stillness for a few moments with his phone in his hands, squeezing the inside of his cheek between his molars. That was . . . somewhat surreal. It won’t be the last time he feels that way before this is all over, he knows. But it’s good, too. He feels lighter. He forgot what that was like, to be cut loose from the weight of a secret shame.

“That sounded not terrible,” Rey comments.

He looks over and finds her tucking something away in her dresser; he can’t see what, and anyway he’s more interested in the view. The way the lean muscles of her back glide beneath her skin. Her round, pretty rump as she shifts her weight. The wispy tendrils of hair that have escaped her bun and brush the nape of her neck.

“It wasn’t.” 

Ben leaves it at that for now. He slips his phone onto the nightstand and checks the progress of her nest. She’s made a much smaller one than he remembers from December. It looks cozy and inviting, and he no longer feels like an intruder expecting permission to enter. He can easily see a place for himself beside her. He can imagine how it would smell as theirs rather than just hers.

Rey is still puttering, so he rubs a hand over the soft, worn cloth of her topmost pillowcase. He didn’t really notice it before, but now he recognizes the dark blue fabric and the glimmer of silver screen-printing, a stark contrast to the pale, sunny yellow of her sheet set. 

His face splits with a grin. “This is a nice touch.” 

He throws an arch look her way as he continues to smooth the surface of the stolen St. Ailbe T-shirt, which she has apparently repurposed as a pillowcase since his last visit. 

“Don’t tease.” The pink of Rey’s face deepens, and she stops in front of him and leans over to swat his hand playfully away. “I had to make do with what I had.” 

She straightens up but doesn’t step back or sit beside him. Her knees bump his, and she waits, fingers flexing. The heat from her body hits him like a wave, along with the intoxicating, complex aura of her scent. Sitting here on the edge of her bed, he’s about eye level with her breasts. He didn’t pay them nearly enough attention earlier.

Her chest is flushed the way he likes, rising with a deep breath as he drags her closer and closes his mouth over her right breast, drawing his lips slowly tighter to suck her nipple until her fingers twist in his hair to the point of pain. Even her sweat is more enticing to him than ever. He kisses his way down her ribs and belly and reaches a smear of slick he must have missed earlier, drying near her navel. He licks that away too and guides her into his lap, where his cock juts thick and ruddy between them. 

“And what do you have now?” he asks.

Rey’s fingernails scrape idly down the back of his scalp as she sinks down to envelop him in the silky, wet heat of her body. She leans close, as if to whisper a secret, and lays her neck beside his. Her still-healing mark sears against his own.

“You.”

+

On Friday morning, Rey wakes to a rumble of thunder and the realization that she has finally slept through the night after several days of stilted, unsatisfying naps. She’s still horny and her mouth is desert-dry, but she can rationalize the more humiliating feelings of nervous discomfort. There’s none of that dire, fuck-or-die desperation. It has to have been at least six hours since they last had a go, but she’d just as soon let herself fall back asleep as let Ben rut her. Which is good, because as things stand, the former seems a more likely option.

Beside her, Ben is sprawled on his back, tangled in a sheet, taking up an awful lot of bedspace and evidently just as needful of real, sustained rest, judging by the regularity of his snores. His chin and jaw are shaded with dark stubble, and she can see the pale bonding mark, smooth and healed, half hidden under his hair. Despite the immediate rush of affection she feels at the sight of him, objectively speaking, he doesn’t look  _ good.  _

In fact, he looks a right mess, and if she got up and looked in the mirror, she’d say the same of herself. Scratched and bruised from their rougher, more grappley moments, sweaty, sticky, lank-haired, heavy-eyed, unkempt. Neither of them has showered in days. The bed is a total disaster, the sheets and maybe even the mattress nigh unsalvageable. There are empty pizza boxes and takeaway containers abandoned on the floor and dresser. Rey’s senses are muddled by pheromones, but to an outsider the room would probably smell appalling. Her muscles ache with overuse, and her entire pelvis is tender, and she could down a gallon of water in ten seconds.

She couldn’t be happier. 

Rey shuffles closer and looks him over a few moments more before placing a light kiss over his mark and smoothing his hair back from his face. She can no longer describe his scent—it’s too known to her for any of the old ideas to seem adequate, even with the new note the marking has added to it.

Against his temple, she murmurs the only word that really fits. “Mine.” 

As she stretches out alongside him, he issues a questioning grunt, then wraps an arm around her and rolls her half beneath him before he seems to truly wake. He sniffs lightly at her and opens his eyes. 

“You’re not in heat anymore.”

“Coming out of it, yeah.”

“You okay?”

She scoffs and runs her palm up his bicep. “I’m sore and filthy, but better than I was.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” he says through a yawn as another peal of thunder rattles the windows. “Do you need me?”

“It’s more a want thing, now.”

They stay in bed for another hour, and in the afterglow of one slow, final coupling, Rey eyes the hallway longingly and declares it time for a bath. Though Ben offers to make her breakfast first (even if it’s nearly noon), it’s easy to redirect his attention as she slips out of bed and pads off to the bathroom. This used to feel like the one thing that got her through her heats—the prospect of a tub full of hot water, whimsical bubbles, and fragrant bath oil to wash away all the grime. It’s one of her favorite private rituals despite the misery that usually precedes it, and she’s surprised by how excited she is to share it. 

While the tub fills, she pulls Ben into the narrow shower stall with her for a quick rinse (no use soaking if the water’ll be cloudy with days-old cum and slick in a matter of seconds—a nauseating thought despite the fact that they’ve basically been rolling in the stuff since Monday night), and then it’s an unexpectedly laughable ordeal trying to arrange themselves in the clawfoot.

“Christ, you are  _ entirely legs _ ,” she exclaims, trying not to get tangled up or cause injury as she leans back against the side. 

“You just now realized that?” When she wrinkles her nose at him in mock disdain, he tilts his head. “Maybe the actual problem is this dinky tub.”

“Dinky! It’s huge,  _ and  _ real porcelain. And it’s what sold me on this place, if you must know.” 

Some water sloshes over the side when she stretches a leg out and waggles her foot teasingly in Ben’s face. He entertains her for a moment, then grabs the offending appendage with both hands and cradles it against his chest like she’s just handed him something precious. Before she can squirm and protest for fear of being tickled, he starts to massage the arch of her foot. He’s gentle at first, but applies firmer pressure as his fingers knead from her arch to the ball of her foot, her heel, even her toes, one at a time.

“Do you like this?” he asks, meeting her eyes.

She sinks down into the water until she’s submerged up to her chin and nods into the bubbles.

“Mm hm.” Understatement of the year. Outside the copious amounts of sex they’ve had, this is as close to orgasmic as she’s been. His deliberate, attentive touch makes her whole body tingly and puttyish from her scalp to her toes, and the steam is amping his scent in a delicious way. “Do you?”

“Very much.”

When he finishes her first foot after several heavenly minutes, he moves on to her second. He’s not just massaging them—he’s  _ washing _ them. Scooping handfuls of sudsy, lemon-rosemary-scented water from the tub, pouring them gently over her feet and ankles, working each foot over with every part of his hands. It’s not something she ever thought she’d be into, but now that he’s started she doesn’t want him to stop.

Rey gets it. Most Alphas remain fixated on caretaking even after their Omega’s heat is over. Washing is a big one. Bathing the Omega. Cleaning them. Pampering them. She’s never experienced it herself—she never could’ve fathomed wanting to let someone do this for her, like she’s some sort of tottering Dickensian waif. It doesn’t feel insulting at all, though, or even fetishistic. Just . . . so, so nice. A service he’s doing her because he can and she’s allowing it.

As he finishes with her second foot and lets it drop slowly back beneath the water, she’s filled with a split second’s worth of disappointment. Until he reaches a hand toward her.

“Come over here.”

A little awkwardly, she turns and moves closer until she’s seated with her back to him, bracketed by his bent knees. Ben leans forward just enough to grab the soft washcloth she left on the ledge, submerges it for a few moments, then draws it over her shoulders and back in slow, arcing strokes. Within seconds she sinks into a fuzzy, trance-like state as he continues attending to her. It’s not until she feels a ticklish rasp of stubble where he pauses to kiss her bonding mark that she comes out of it a bit and remembers how close they are to the end of this encounter. 

There will be more like it, of course. There will have to be, now that this week has happened, and he’s going to go back to . . . what, exactly?

“Ben?”

His lips brush her neck once more before he returns to washing her. “Yeah?”

“What’s next?”

“If I have my way, breakfast.”

“No, I mean for us,” she says with a grin. She’s not anxious; far from it. But they haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet, and she’s sure he’s been waiting for a moment to bring it up. “Like, what do we do now? Will you need to take a sabbatical or something?”

Behind her, Ben chuckles. “You’ve been researching.”

“I was. While we were apart. I wanted to have some idea of what to expect.” It kept her hopeful too, which she’d needed most of all. “And as much as I’d love for you to just  _ stay _ , I know there’s things you need to do first. So I wondered what they are—and where I fit in.”

He sighs and rubs a hand up and down her back a few times as he thinks. 

“First thing, I’ll have to talk to Mo again when I go back. I’ll need to tell him everything. What I want to do. What’s been going on between me and you.”

He’s still running the cloth over her body, reaching around her to wash her throat and chest. When he gets to her breasts, belly, and thighs, his touch is slower and more cautious but no less intimate, raising goosebumps in its wake.

“Not all the sordid details, I hope,” she says.

“I need to be accountable for what I’ve done. Including things with you.” His hand travels up the inside of her thigh but stops short. “But I’ll be discreet about your private matters. There are things he doesn’t need to know about.”

“No shit.” Rey shakes with a laugh and squeezes his hand between her thighs before he can pull it away. “He’ll probably thank you for it. Most Betas get a bit squicky about that stuff.”

“Can you blame them?” he asks, sounding amused.

“Not a bit.”

“And as for this”—he circles her mark with a thumb—“it’ll change things. It’ll have to—he knows what it means, and it’ll make our case more sympathetic, at least. And then, yeah, I’ll probably be asked to take an extended leave of absence while the rest is sorted out. Or else I’ll ask for one.”

“The rest . . . Does that mean you’ll ask for the exemption?”

“Because of the true mark?”

“Yeah. Would you want to stay in the clergy if they’d let you be with me too?”

He leaves the washcloth draped over the side of the tub and loosens her wet hair from the clip she piled it up with after the shower, teasing the tangles out with his fingers. “Truthfully? I’m not sure.”

“Really.” She’s hopes she doesn’t sound skeptical; it’s just that his answer genuinely surprises her. “It’s okay, I mean, if you’re not. I know it doesn’t really change anything for  _ us _ , but I just figured, with the marks being what they are . . . it’s sort of the perfect solution, you know?”

“It helps. But the process to obtain a dispensation for  _ copula absoultus _ is . . .”

“Intense. I know.”

“Intense is one word for it. Invasive is another. The matter’ll be highly scrutinized. And  _ I’ll  _ be scrutinized, and so will you.” His hands run through her hair, soaping it from root to tip and tracing gentle circles into her scalp with the pads of his fingers. “I need to be sure it’s what I want. And if it is, it has to be what you want, too. It’s not a small thing. I won’t commit to it without your consent.”

“We’ll talk about it, then. If you decide to pursue it. It’d be a change.”

She’d essentially be a preacher’s wife, or mate, or partner, which would be a hell of a thing considering she’s not sold on the idea of a god at all, let alone such a strict brand of religion as Catholicism. As far as she’s concerned, the way she and Ben are bonded now would be enough for a lifetime. 

“I don’t think my time as a priest has been a mistake,” he says quietly. “But if I choose to stay one, it’ll only be with you by my side. And I don’t want it to be for the wrong reasons again.”

“I don’t want that, either.” 

She lets out a long sigh and leans her head back into his touch as his fingers work near her crown. It feels like he’s almost done, which isn’t as disappointing as it could be—she has every intention of returning the favors he’s done her before they drain the tub and go have some real food. Circle soap over his skin with her palms, wash his hair, carefully shave the rime of stubble from his jaw. The thought makes her shiver with anticipation.

“But,” she continues, running a hand down his calf, “whichever path you take, I’ll help you. We’ll take it together.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“In the meantime, if you needed a place to stay while you take your time away—you’d be welcome here. Obviously. If that’s not breaking a rule, or anything.” 

His dry laugh tickles her ear. “Are we worried about breaking rules now?”

“That sounds like an offer accepted.” 

He snakes an arm around her waist and he coaxes her back against his chest. “It is.”

After they finish with the bath, the day proceeds like it might well be any other. Cleaning up the mess of her room and inside his truck. Doing a rather horrific load of laundry. Finally getting around to that long-awaited breakfast, which ends up being a simple but rich affair of eggs, bacon, and copious amounts of coffee. With every activity, Rey sees where the routines will sprout. Intimate domesticity will replace the uncertainty, the long absences, and the sneaking around. It’s the sort of boring dependability she has craved so long to have with him that its burgeoning reality makes her feel both grounded and feather-light.

An hour or so before sundown, she walks him out. Neither of them hesitates when he wraps his arms around her and kisses her against the side of the truck. It’s long and slow and probably obnoxious to anyone who might look out their window and see, if there is anyone. They no longer have much reason to care.

“I know you can’t come back right away, but call me tonight after it’s done,” she says when they finally break. “I’d like to know how it goes. And hear your voice.”

“I will.” He stays close, chest to chest, his neck draped over her shoulder. “Maybe we can meet for coffee in the morning. Somewhere in the city, out of St. Ailbe’s radius.”

Rey smiles slow and warm. “Like a date?”

“We’re sort of overdue for one, don’t you think?”

“Extremely.” 

She watches him drive off until the truck disappears around the corner. As she wanders back up to the house, she reaches into the pocket of her jacket and brushes her fingers against the golden dice he gave her earlier. She asked him what they were from, and he promised to tell her the story next time. 

Next time. The pull to follow and find him is still there, lingering at the forefront of her awareness the way it always does right after she’s been with him. The anxious ache of it is gone. Now, when Rey lets herself notice it, it’s like a hand reaching into the dark and finally clasped, a call always answered. It feels like a vow. Soon enough, it will resolve into a quiet, vital thrum, as much a part of her as her heartbeat. 

+

Ben knows what he has to do. He’s known for a long time, but the thought no longer fills him with dread. In fact, as he heads toward the rectory, he’s eager. The Good Friday service is long over with, so he’s not surprised to find Canady awaiting him in his office. He’s even remembered the bottle of Macallan. There are two glasses next to it.

“Welcome back,” Canady says impassively as Ben takes a seat. 

“Thanks.”

He is fleetingly self-conscious. When he arrived, he didn’t bother stopping to change or compose himself in his room, so he’s sitting here in the same clothing he was wearing when he left Monday afternoon. They smell like Rey’s laundry detergent, but they look the same.  _ He  _ looks the same, except for one thing. He resists the urge to reach up and rub the bonding mark only partially hidden by the collar of his T-shirt. The mark that reminds him he is not the same—he’s indelibly changed. 

Canady fills their glasses and motions to Ben’s. 

“Drink.”

“You know I hate this stuff?” Ben’s mouth twitches into a wry grimace, but he complies. As expected, he just manages not to wince.

“I think you’ll find it helps.” Canady mirrors his droll look and sets the bottle aside. He leaves it open. “Consider it a small form of mortification.”

“What, before all the rest?”

He regards Ben evenly, then chuckles. “Fair point, given what I suspect we’re about to discuss.” He narrows his eyes and runs a thumb along the rim of his glass. “You’re feeling more yourself now?”

Ben reminds himself that the hardest part is already over and takes another sip that sears his throat. “You could say that.” 

Canady nods, his hands planted flat on his desk, and seems to gather himself up. It occurs to Ben that the monsignor might have been dreading this all week. Unlike Ben, who had the very thorough distractions of pheromones, sex, and the constant presence of the woman he loves to keep him from dwelling on the inevitable, Canady has likely been considering this meeting an unfortunate priority since Monday. It’s also likely he hasn’t ever had to deal with this situation before. 

But he’s not totally unschooled. His eyes catch on Ben’s collar, then widen. 

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It is. And I’ll explain.”

“I should think so.”

“But . . .”

Canady looks affronted as he watches Ben expectantly. “Yes?”

“I’d like to start with confession. If it’s all right with you.”

This is the last place Ben ever imagined having it, staring Canady in the eye with a glass of liquor in hand, but it feels like the right way to begin. Nothing to hide. Clean slate, and all.

“That would be a very good idea.” 

Together they make the Sign of the Cross, and then Canady folds his hands, glances at Ben’s neck one more time, and waits for him to unburden himself. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been over a year since my last honest confession.”

This time, Ben lets himself reach up and tenderly rub the mark, as if scratching an itch. It’s smooth and warm and smells of her in a way he’s certain only he can perceive. His own private sign, a reminder that she’s waiting and that this was meant to happen exactly as it has. Ben drains his glass and begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more for reading! You can find me on Twitter at thisgarbagepic1 and Tumblr at thisgarbagepicker.


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